


Conversations With The Dead

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mute Sam Winchester, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Self-Harm, spnhorrorbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8197334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Sometimes, a parent might tuck in their child at night and find an empty bed in the morning.In 1996, Sam Winchester vanished in an empty room. He reappeared two months later with missing hair, bruises and vacant eyes.By 2000, Dean Winchester is a hunter in his own right. He travels to Minnesota where his brother now lives with Pastor Jim, a long-time friend of their father's. The thing is, John Winchester recently went into the house that ruined his youngest son and he never came back out. Thing is, Sam is the only person who knows what's in the house. Thing is, Sam Winchester hasn't spoken in four years.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First, thanks to the mods at the spnhorrorbang for organising everything and just generally being amazing.
> 
> My amazingly talented artist, Lisa (dollarformyname), who created the most wonderful illustrations. She created a beautiful mix or horrifying and hopeful. I feel so lucky that she decided to claim my fic and I'm not entirely sure I'm worthy of her. Go look at all of her beautiful artwork for this fic in her [masterpost!](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/82055.html)
> 
> My wonderful beta, Emily (soy-em) who was like a knight in shining armour come to respond to my desperate call on tumblr. She was so helpful and thoughtful with this story. She's a total peach and an absolute pro, beta'ing this fic like a freakin' ninja.
> 
> And a special thanks to the lovely Pooja (winchesterpooja), who helped me figure out the ending to this story, and who has been a very comfortable shoulder to lean on through the entire process of my first ever bigbang.

                                                     

 

 _Dean – 12_ _th_ _-13_ _th_ _August 1996, on the road_

Dean watched the trees sway in the breeze. They danced slowly, mournfully. It was the darkest hour of night and the moon was hidden behind the clouds. In the distance, there were street lamps. Too far to clear the dark away.

Sitting beside him on the bench, Sam was short for a thirteen-year-old, his toes only just brushed the concrete path below. The wind ruffled the boy's brown hair, pushed it out of his eyes.

Dean couldn't look at him.

"Don't you get tired of Dad bossing you around?" Sam asked. He'd been asking this same question over and over for the past day and Dean still hadn't given him an answer yet.

He didn't give an answer then, either.

He shifted his gaze over to the empty play park. The swings blew to and fro gently, the see-saw knocked up and down to an uneven beat. The park was filled with shadows and quiet. It was like another world without children to play in it.

"You'd be wanting to go on the swing," Dean said. Sam frowned and looked up at him. "You wouldn't say so. You'd say it's lame but I'd be racing you over there because there's no one around to see. You'd have waited for me to suggest it."

"Suggest it, then," Sam said.

Dean didn't answer. He felt Sam's weight shift closer on the bench. He felt the brush of Sam's coat against his hands and he shivered.

"It could be just you and me," Sam said, a whine to his voice.

"You're not very good at this yet," Dean said. "You're too young. Don't your parents teach you this stuff? Do you even have parents?"

Sam frowned. "I'm not sure," he admitted. He sounded sad, quiet. "Are you going to kill me?"

"I guess I have to," Dean replied. His voice was flat; he forced it steady enough to keep it from cracking. "I don't want to."

"Then don't," Sam insisted. He slid closer to Dean. Dean stood up and moved away, his skin crawling. He felt for the gun on his belt. "Please," Sam begged. "You need me."

"I could have killed you when I first saw you but I didn't," Dean said. "I didn't want to. I wanted to… just see his face. Even if it wasn't his. It's been two months."

"I got the shape right," Sam said, half-disappointed. "Where did I go wrong?"

"You look like him. That's it. There's nothing else about you that's like him."

Sam stood up. The top of his head only reached the centre of Dean's chest. Dean so desperately wanted to grip him tight, pull him closer, bury his nose in his hair. But none of it would have been real. It wasn't real.

Sam dropped his gaze. "Will you do it quickly?"

Dean was surprised how quickly the thing gave up, but he kept his face stony. "Change your face first," he ordered.

"I don't know how. I can't control it."

Dean nodded. "Alright. I'm sorry, if that means anything."

"It does," Sam said. He smiled a little wistfully. "I'm sorry, too. About your brother."

Dean didn't answer, pretended he didn't hear. Instead, he eyed the boy in front of him for a moment. He watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. He said, "You don't seem scared."

"I am," Sam said. He closed his eyes for a moment. "But it seems fair. I killed that girl and… and I didn't like it. I don't like this. Maybe it'd be easier if a hunter killed me. It would happen one day, eventually."

Dean blew out a breath, it caught onto the air and swirled away like smoke. "Must suck to be a monster."

"Probably about as much as it sucks to be a hunter," Sam said.

Dean nodded and stepped forwards. Gripping the boy's arms tightly, there was little resistance. Sam stayed completely still. When Dean thrust the knife forward, when he felt it dig through skin, flesh and bone, he didn't look down. He held the boy until he stopped moving. It didn't take long.

When he was sure it was dead, he swung it over his shoulder, carried it through the dead, empty park and far enough into the woods that even the stars couldn't watch. He buried it. Later, he'd tell his dad that he killed the monster right away, then salted and burned it. He wouldn't tell his dad who the shifter dressed up as, even if he had his suspicions that his dad already knew.

* * *

It was past midnight when he got back to the motel. His hands were caked in mud; it was buried under his nails. It would be a long time before he got the grave dirt off of his skin. John was sitting at the table in the kitchenette. The legs were uneven and it wobbled as he wrote in his journal, hunched over the table top with his eyes trained hard on the paper.

"You're back later than I thought," John said without looking up. Dean let the door fall shut behind him. His eyes roamed aimlessly around the room and found a damp spot behind the fridge. He focused on it as he spoke.

"Went out for a bit after," he said.

John nodded. He still hadn't looked up. "I wanted you to know that I would have done the job with you if it'd been full-grown. You can handle a young one on your own. It's good to learn to do these things on your own."

 _I won't always be around,_ was left unsaid. Dean glanced at his dad, traced the dark, thin skin under his eyes, down to the creases around his mouth, up to the grey in his hair. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past two months.

Dean wondered what he must have looked like to his father. Did he look ten years older, too?

Just as John looked up, Dean looked away. He found it hard to look people in the eye sometimes, especially if it was Dad. He didn't want to see the disappointment. He couldn't stand it.

The silence between them was almost suffocating and Dean headed for the bathroom without a word, feeling John's eyes on his back the whole way there.

The door clicked when the lock slid into place and Dean sat down heavily on the closed toilet seat. His fingers felt stiff, dried into position by the mud, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock of hair. It had been something he'd done without thinking, slicing off a few strands right before he lowered the monster's tiny body into the hole.

It wasn't Sam's, but it was as close as Dean would get.

Two months.

Sam had been gone for two months.

* * *

They were driving from one state to the next, had been for the past several hours in wordless company, when John got a call from Bobby Singer. Dean was driving and he didn't slow down, didn't even think of pulling over, even when he saw the look on John's face. These days, he felt so numb inside.

John and Bobby had stopped talking right after Sam disappeared. Dean wasn't there to witness it, but he'd gathered that Bobby blamed John for what happened to Sam. He'd been warning John Winchester about letting his kids near monsters for ten years. In the end, he'd been right about it.

Although, it was Dean's fault, not John's. That was where Bobby Singer got it wrong.

"What is it, Singer?" John asked gruffly. Dean couldn't make out what Bobby was saying on the other end of the line. His voice was muffled, almost impossible to understand over the constant hum of the highway, the growl of the Impala's engine.

Dean focused on listening.

John hadn't said another word. Bobby's voice was streaming from the speaker with no indication of stopping. Horror pulled at John's face, colour draining from it like a gutted fish. He hung up without saying anything, slammed his fist on the dashboard and yelled for Dean to stop the car.

Even then, as he clamped his foot over the break, Dean didn't look John in the eye.

"Sam," his dad said. One word and it meant everything. One word and Dean knew: Sam's been found. That had to be it. Someone had found Sam.

"That was, uh, Bobby Singer on the phone," John said. Dean already knew this; John knew that Dean knew this. Dean had never seen his father struggle to find words. After a moment John continued, "a hunter he knows caught a demon. The guy was interrogating it and the thing mentioned Sam's name."

There was silence again. Nothing but the sound of cars zooming past them. It didn't seem like John was going to say anything else so Dean asked, "What did it say?"

"The thing said we left one of our own in Georgia. It said Sammy's still in that house."


	2. Chapter One

_Dean – 17_ _th_ _June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota_

Sam looks like a shell of what he should to be. He's skinny, his bones seem stretched too long for his body. There's not enough fat on him to keep his cheeks from sinking. His fingers are long and shaky as he gently shovels away dirt with a green trowel. His hair is too long, falling to brush his shoulders, covering his face. The white strand at the front of his scalp is bright in the sunlight.

He doesn't look seventeen.

Dean sits in the Impala for a moment longer, watching. Sam seems at ease. As content as he seems capable of being. God, Dean doesn't want to get out of the car. He waits a moment longer and watches as Sam tenderly places a long-leafed plant into the ground. Sam spends a good few minutes finding the right angle to stand the plant, then he takes even more time to fill the gaps around it with soil, shovelling a delicate amount each time.

After Sam has watered it, he sits there, on his knees, and stares at it like he might be able to catch one of the buds opening up into a flower. Dean bets that if it were up to Sam, Sam would watch the plant day and night, sitting right there in the grass outside of Pastor Jim's house.

It's been twenty minutes since Dean pulled up into Jim's drive and Sam still hasn't noticed. Or maybe he's choosing to ignore Dean. Probably avoiding Dean's likely attempts at making conversation.

God. Dean wishes he didn't have to be here. For Sammy's sake.

But he doesn't have a choice, not this time, and Dean finally climbs out from behind the wheel. He takes extra care to close the door as silently as possible before walking up to the house. He makes the effort to walk around Sam and into his line of sight – the kid doesn't do so well with surprises. Once Dean is right next to him, his shadow falling over his little brother's shoulders, Sam glances up at him through a strand of hair that's fallen over his face.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, forcing a grin. Sam's not stupid, he can hear the forced brightness in Dean's voice and he frowns, questioning. Dean goes on, "Is Jim around?"

Of course Jim is around. If Sam is here, so is Jim.

Sam nods and points towards the front door. Dean smiles again, but it's thin, stretched tight over his teeth. "You mind showing me in?" he asks. Sam nods again, more reluctantly. He gazes again at the plant, looking a little disappointed, then he climbs to his feet, using a shaking hand to pull himself up with the windowsill for support.

Dean lets Sam walk ahead and he traces his eyes over the hunched line of Sam's shoulders, the bow of his head. Not once has Sam looked Dean directly in the eye.

Jim Murphy is in his kitchen, slicing bread. There's a couple of pots boiling on the stove, the room is filled with the smell of cooking vegetables, the windows are fogged with steam. Jim looks surprised, but pleased, when he notices Dean.

"Dean," he says, "It's been a while. Sam and I were wondering what mess you must have gotten yourself into this time."

Dean feels a swell of guilt in his gut. It has been few months since he's visited. "Sorry about that," he apologises. "I got swept up with work, you know."

"I know," Jim says softly. "There's always another hunt." He pauses to finish slicing off a piece of bread. "How's your father?"

Sam looks up from his seat then, listening. Dean could swear he almost saw a twitch of a smile on Sam's face. The kid never got on with John until he decided to stop talking. Their relationship was better than ever once Sam couldn't argue back. Dean remembers the last time he saw Dad. They'd hung out at some no-name bar right before John left to see Sam for a couple of days before heading off to re-work the case from Georgia.

Dean glances at Sam awkwardly, then back to Jim. "Do you, uh, mind if I talk to you alone for a second?"

Jim hasn't had a chance to reply before Sam pushes his chair roughly out from the table. He glares stormily at Dean's shoulder then disappears from the room without a sound. Dean waits until he hears the heavy click of a door upstairs before turning back to Jim.

"He's missed you," Jim says. "I know it's hard to tell when he's so quiet. I'm with that boy all day, every day and I can tell he's missing his family something fierce, even if he doesn't say so."

"I miss him, too," Dean insists. And he does, God, he misses Sam more than any words could describe. But he doesn't know if he's missing Sam, or the kid Sam used to be. Dean sighs, "I really do miss him. But you know he can't come on the road with us."

"Oh, I know," Jim assures. "It's a dangerous place for any person. Sam has gotten so much better with the stability he has here. You and your father made the right decision for him. Besides, I enjoy his company."

"How's he been doing?" Dean asks. He's just avoiding the thing he really came here for. He has been since his dad didn't answer the phone almost two weeks ago.

"Better," Jim answers. He sighs. "He still doesn't sleep well. I find him pacing his room at night. He seems more agitated recently, spends a lot of his time writing."

"Writing?" Dean repeats, surprised. "But he hasn't said a word in four years, not since…" he clears his throat. "What is he writing?"

"I don't know," Jim admits. "It seems impolite to look without asking. I know what the answer will be if I do ask."

Dean nods, understanding. Jim puts the bread knife down and takes a step forward. "I had asked about your father and I didn't get an answer. The fact you asked to speak privately tells me something is wrong."

Dean decides to get to the point. Now or never. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."

"Ridgeville?" Jim guesses, but the serious look in his eye makes it clear he already knows exactly where Dean means.

Dean nods. "He was checking in everyday until about two weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't answered any of my calls. I drove over there right away. His truck is parked outside but I can't find any sign of him."

"And you think – "

"I _know_."

"And you're asking for my help?" Jim clarifies. "I've been out of hunting for a while, Dean. I'm not the best help for you."

"I'm asking Sam for help," Dean corrects.

Jim's eyes widen. He shakes his head frantically. "You can't get him involved in this. He can't handle it."

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "Jim, I know, alright?" he hisses. "I can see what that fucking house did to him. Anyone can see it, okay? But Sam is the _only_ person who knows what's in there. He's the only person who can help."

Jim closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. "I won't allow it. Sam cannot be a part of this. I know you're scared for your father. I am too. But Sam - Sam is _fragile_. Getting him involved in this will hurt him _badly_."

"Jesus Christ, Jim," Dean swears. "I don't want to hurt him. I want him to be _okay_. I want that more than anything. But this is our dad. Sammy's dad. And without Sam, Dad's dead."

"And how do you know he isn't already?"

"Fuck you, Jim," Dean spits. "I just know. I'd know if he was dead."

Jim purses his lips, looks like he wants to say something. He shakes his head, a silent conversation with himself which ends in a relenting sigh.

"This is Sam's decision to make. If he doesn't want any part in it, you leave him be. You understand?"

Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. "I understand."

"Good," Jim says curtly. Then he adds under muttered breath, "Go and traumatise your brother."

Dean doesn't pay any notice. The guy acts like he's Sammy's only family, like he's the only authority when it comes to Sam. Well, Jim isn't family. Jim can suck it.

There's a soft light up the stairs, shining through the crack of Sam's door. Dean treads lightly up the steps, wincing at every creak and groan the wood makes beneath his feet. When he gets to Sam's bedroom door he raises his fist to knock, but pauses and peers inside.

Sam is hunched over the desk, scribbling away at something Dean can't see. Sam suddenly turns in his seat and looks straight at Dean, a scowl emerging across his face. He hurriedly reaches behind and flips the notebook shut. Dean clears his throat and steps into the room.

"Sorry if I startled you. Um, Sam?"

Sam doesn't say anything. Just stares.

Dean shifts on his feet. "I came up to talk to you about something," he explains. If Sam is curious at all, he doesn't show it. Dean clears his throat again. "It's about Dad. He was hunting but, uh, he hasn't called in a few days."

There's a flicker of something across Sam's face. It's not what Dean might have expected, like worry or fear. He can't place it, and it's gone as quick as it came.

"So," Dean begins. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."

Sam seems to unfreeze, hunch slightly lower in his seat. His eyes close and he swallows hard, gripping the arms of his chair tight enough to whiten his fingers.

"He hasn't come back," Dean finishes. He gives Sam a moment and sits on the edge of the bed. Sam releases one hand from the chair and brings it up in a fist which he presses against his eye, pushing hard. Dean is up and hurrying forward, he grabs Sam's wrist, prying his hand away from his face.

"Sammy, stop," he orders. Sam loosens a little, slumping slightly, leaning towards Dean so that his head is almost against his chest. Dean places his other hand on Sam's head and rubs gently.

"Calm down. It's okay," he soothes. "Can you keep calm for me?"

Sam nods.

"Okay, kiddo, you're doing great," Dean praises, like Sam's a puppy that didn't piss on the carpet for once. "Sam, I need to ask you some things. I need answers. I need to know what you know so I can help Dad."

Sam shakes his head.

"Please, Sammy."

Sam sits up, shoving weakly at Dean's chest. The look on his face is a mix of terror and fury. Dean sighs and glances around the room, eyes landing on the notebook on the desk.

"Hey, what if you write it down, huh? That way you don't have to say anything out loud."

He's just managed to grab the book when he's knocked to the floor. Sam is straddled over his stomach, shoving his bony elbow into Dean's chest, using his other hand to try to grasp the book. Dean grips it tighter and bucks, knocking Sam off of him and onto the floor.

"What the hell, Sammy?" he barks, trying to get to his feet. Sam comes at him again and shoves him into the desk, grunting with the effort. The table jolts and several objects topple from its surface.

Dean uses his feet to keep Sam at a distance as the kid's arms fly wildly at his face.

"Good God! What's going on here?" the door bursts open to reveal Jim's startled face. The pastor doesn't hesitate a moment longer and he lunges forward, pulling Sam away from Dean, pinning the kid's arms tightly to his side. Dean sits up and tries to catch his breath.

"Fuck, Sam," he gasps. He glances to the other side of the room where Jim still has Sam restrained, trying to get him to lie down on the bed and muttering soft words in his ear. Dean looks away, down to the black spiral-bound notebook in his hand. It's slightly crooked now, a corner of the cover bends outwards.

He opens it. Sam's writing is a mess, but Dean can just make it out. He flips through the notebook and feels something heavy make its place in his gut. Page after page is filled with the same sentence, scrawled out over and over:

_She'll be hungry again._

* * *

_Sam – 7_ _th_ _June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

The house was bigger than any Sam had ever seen up close. At least, one that wasn't haunted.

He stood in the middle of the path, staring up at the three-storied building. It was a little old and weathered; the white-painted panelling was now yellowish in places and peeling away, a couple of the blue shutters were hanging off their hinges.

Sam didn't mind. He'd dreamed of houses like this.

Dean knocked him back to reality, shoving by with a sly grin on his face. He marched up to the porch with his bag slung over his shoulder.

"I get to pick my room first!" he declared.

Sam furrowed his brow. "Why do you pick first?"

"I'm the oldest," Dean said with a shrug. Sam scowled. That was Dean's answer to everything.

Sam took another long glance at the house and turned back to the car. His dad was bent over the trunk; his journal was open in one hand.

"How long are we staying here?" Sam asked. John looked up, then down, to Sam. He carefully closed the journal and tucked it away in his jacket.

"Until the job's done, Sammy," he answered, reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. Sam squirmed away and ducked under his dad's arm to peer into the trunk. It had been five years since Dean had told him the truth and Sam still wasn't quite used to seeing so many weapons in one place.

"What are we hunting?" Sam asked, picking up a wooden crucifix and twirling it in his hands. John grabbed it and put it back in its place.

"Not _we_ , Sammy," he said. "This isn't a hunt for you."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, trying to stand up a little taller than he was. "How come?" he demanded. "You always make me come on hunts."

John sighed wearily. "Sam," he said, hard like he was holding back from raising his voice. "I said you're not coming on this hunt. Just do what I say and don't argue about it, okay?"

"But – "

" _Sam_. I've been driving for thirteen hours straight. Just… give me a break."

Before Sam could get another word out, John dumped two duffel bags into his arms and nudged him towards the house. Sam sighed and headed for the porch. The two bags piled high up to his nose and he could barely see where he was walking. He was tentatively feeling around for the front step with his foot when one of the bags disappeared out of his grip.

Dean stared down at him from the top step, duffel hanging off his shoulder. "What's taking so long, squirt?"

"Nothin'," Sam mumbled, jogging up the last couple of steps and onto the porch. Dean held the front door open and let Sam pass. Pausing in the hallway, Sam turned to Dean. "Do you know what Dad's hunting?" he asked.

Dean smiled, looking a little proud, chest puffing out. "You mean, do I know what _me and Dad_ are hunting?"

Sam dropped the bag he was holding onto the carpet. "How come you're going and I'm not?"

Dean strode past him, whacking the side of Sam's head on his way to the stairs. "Relax, Sammy. Besides, since when do you care about hunting?"

Sam stomped up the stairs after him. "I care," he cried indignantly.

Dean snorted. Sam followed him across the landing and into a room at the end of the corridor. He paused in the doorway, finally taking a moment to appreciate the interior of the house. It was as weathered as it was on the outside, but the ceilings were tall and the windows were wide. Sunlight came through and soaked the wooden floors with bright warmth.

The room was spacious and mostly empty, apart from a large bed and drawers. Dean dumped his duffel on the floor and took a short run-up to leap onto the bed. He landed with a soft _oof_ and spread out his arms and legs, grinning like a contented cat.

"What if that bed had woodworm and disintegrated underneath you?" Sam pointed out.

Dean glared at him. "It didn't," he snapped. "Why do you always have to dig at things, huh?"

Sam blinked at him, feeling heat flush in his cheeks. "I… I don't – "

Dean sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean that," he said, voice softening. "You just ask a lot of questions."

Sam stared at his shoes. One of his laces was longer than the other. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked.

"No," Dean said. He sounded sincere, and a little apologetic. "It's just, in this life you have to listen to orders or someone will get hurt."

"Is that why I'm not allowed to come with you and Dad?"

Dean sighed. "It's not that. There are some hunts that kids shouldn't get involved in."

"I'm not a kid," Sam insisted.

Dean grinned. "You might not think so," he said. He straightened his face, serious. "Just trust me, okay? You don't want to be involved in this."

After a moment, Sam nodded. The difference between Dean and Dad was that Dean actually _talked_ to Sam, rather than shout out orders like Dad did.

"Maybe, when me and Dad are away," Dean went on, "you could explore the house. I bet there's a ton of cool old crap around here. And there's the lakes nearby, and a big pond on the other side of the field."

Sam nodded, but none of Dean's suggestions sounded very appealing when he knew he'd be alone. He would spend most of his time by himself in this huge house, hoping and praying that his family would be coming home. And it was summer, which was even worse because he didn't even have school to occupy him.

Sam didn't _like_ hunting, but when he went along on a job at least he could be with his dad and brother.

Sam looked back up from his space in the doorway but Dean had already turned his attention away to an old batman comic he'd had since he was ten. At seventeen years old, Dean must have read it hundreds of times. Sam sighed and stepped back out into the hallway.

"Close the door behind you!" Dean yelled. Sam groaned and pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary. Dust filled the air and Sam coughed on his way up to the third and final floor of the house.

The attic only had two rooms; a bedroom and a bathroom. Sam discovered that there was no running water in the bathroom. The pipes groaned in protest when he turned the taps. The bedroom was the best part of the house, Sam was sure. The ceilings were sloped and the room was long. There was a bed, not quite as large as Dean's but larger than any Sam had slept in before. Of everything, it was the window that Sam liked best.

It was large and circular, stretching from floor to ceiling. Sam sat down, legs crossed, in front of the window and peered down to the long driveway out front. He could see his dad still leaning into the car's trunk. Sam squinted one eye closed and reached out with his fingers, squishing his ant-sized dad between them.

He spent the rest of the afternoon organising what little he owned in his room. All five of his books were balanced neatly on the table, all of his clothes were fit into a single drawer in the dresser, the polaroid Bobby Singer took of him and Dean in a treehouse they built in the yard one summer was taped next to his bed.

It wasn't much but it made him feel a fraction more normal.

Dean only came out of his room when dinner was on the table. Dinner was Chinese takeout which was cold from the thirty-minute drive between the town centre and the house. The table they ate at had one leg shorter than the others, shifting any time someone moved their elbow even just slightly.

John handed Sam and Dean a glass of tap water. Dean downed his in one go, Sam stared at it suspiciously. He took a tentative sip and placed it back down on the table.

"The water doesn't work in the third floor bathroom," Sam told his dad.

"You'll have to use the one downstairs," John replied with a shrug.

Sam twirled some noodles with his fork. "What's happening tomorrow?" he asked. He'd wanted to ask if they'd be around much, but he didn't want to seem like he was scared of being alone. He's supposed to be John Winchester's son. John Winchester isn't afraid of anything.

"Me and Dean will be heading into town," John said, spearing a piece of pork into his mouth.

"Yeah, Dad thinks I look old enough to question witnesses with him," Dean added, beaming.

Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean's only seventeen," he reminded his dad.

"He looks older," John pointed out. Sam turned his concentration back to his uneaten noodles. He couldn't really deny that Dean looked old enough to drink.

"Don't worry too much, bud," John said, patting Sam's shoulder. "Besides, I bet you're looking forward to getting us out of your hair."

Sam shrugged away from his Dad's grip and tried to ignore the hurt look it caused. "Yeah," Sam muttered. "I can't wait."

The truth was: the house was awesome, it was the perfect weather for summer, there was a big, clean pond nearby to swim in… but none of it seemed that great when there was no one to share it with. None of it was that great when Sam couldn't get the heavy weight of worry out of his gut.

He wished he could ask them to stop. But no one ever listened to him.

"I'm going to explore a bit," Sam said, pushing his mostly-full plate away. Dean shrugged and scraped Sam's leftovers onto his own pile and continued devouring it with similar grace to a werewolf on a full moon.

Sam slipped out of the kitchen as quickly as he could, feeling his father's eyes on his back.

In the main hallway, the floorboards creaked and groaned under his weight. He glanced up at the towering ceiling where a dusty chandelier hung, swaying slightly in the breeze let in through the open windows. Sam never did think to ask his father how he managed to find a place like this for them to stay in.

He heard muttered conversation from the kitchen, the occasional mention of his name got his feet moving again. Sam found his way into the living room. He hadn't been in there, not properly, only a glance through the door on his way down for dinner.

There was a pile of dust sheets sitting by the door. Old furniture was arranged crookedly around the room. Sam dropped down onto the nearest couch and kicked his feet up, glancing around. The fireplace was huge; black metal with intricate designs coiling around its body. Carvings of a similar fashion crept around the top of the walls.

There wasn't much else to see. Sam sighed, disappointed.

He was about to leave when the scratching started; a soft scuffling in the walls. Sam knew the signs of a malevolent spirit better than he knew the alphabet, probably. 1) Flickering lights, 2) a drop in temperature, 3) noises like rats…

"What are you doing?" Dean's voice startled him from behind. Sam turned around; his brother was leaning in the doorway with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

"Is Dad letting you _drink?_ " Sam asked, not bothering to hide the disapproval in his tone.

Dean rolled his eyes and made a noise. " _Pfft._ Sammy, you're such a prude," he said, grinning, holding back a laugh. Sam frowned. How come Dean was like that? Why was he always smiling, so full of life, when Sam was so miserable?

"So, what's so interesting in here?" Dean asked, tapping his fingers idly against the neck of the beer bottle.

Sam glanced one last time around the room. The noise was gone. His dad had checked the house before he rented it, of course. If John Winchester didn't find any signs of a ghost, then it was likely there wasn't one. In a house as old as this, the likelihood was that the noises came from rats. Sam might have preferred a ghost.

"Nothing," he finally answered.

Dean patted him on shoulder. "Well, I'm heading for bed. You coming?"

That night, Sam woke up shuddering. He was frozen, skin standing up in prickles. He rubbed his eyes and pulled the covers closer. He drifted too close to sleep to wonder how he could be so cold in the middle of summer in Georgia.

Half-sleeping, Sam heard the floorboards groan under someone's weight, growing closer. He sighed and pulled the blanket higher, up to his nose.

"G'way, Dean," he mumbled. He felt weight dip the mattress by his feet and a cold hand brushed the hair from his face. Sam sat up, annoyed, and turned to glare at his brother. He blinked, confused, when he was met with nothing but a dark and empty room.

He shuddered again, this time not because of the cold. Impulsively, Sam made a dash for the door, nearly stumbling down the steps and into Dean's room. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, sweat layered his upper lip.

He found his brother fast asleep on top of the covers, windows wide open, covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Down in Dean's room, Sam was feeling the heat again. He tiptoed over to the bed and climbed in, squeezing as close as he dared without waking him. Dean mumbled sleepily and rolled over, away from Sam.

He dared to peek over Dean's shoulder, into the hallway. Nothing, until he saw something shift in the dark. Sam ducked under the covers. It took a while for him to get back to sleep again, heart thundering in his chest, sweltering under the blanket.

When he woke up in the morning, he was back in his bed in the attic.


	3. Chapter Two

_Dean – June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota_

Dean trails his fingers along the cracks on the surface of the kitchen table and listens. He can hear Jim's voice, muffled and soft, coming from upstairs. It tightens his chest and lodges something in his throat, knowing that Jim is the one up there with Sam and Dean isn't.

Dean hasn't been there for Sam in a long time, he knows that. He knows it's his fault that things are like this between them. And that only makes it more painful.

Does Sam even want Dean around? If he did, he certainly won't now. Not after Dean just traumatised his already traumatised kid brother.

God. He needs coffee. And a little whiskey.

He needs to find his dad.

The floorboards creek overhead and Dean sits up straighter, watching the door until Jim comes around the corner. The pastor's lips are pressed into a thin line; his eyes are narrowed. Dean has always been impressed with how Jim manages to be angry in the quietest possible way.

"I think it's best we don't talk of that with Sam again," he says sharply. "I know you want to find John. I do, too, and I'll pray every day until he's found, but this is not something Sam can be involved in. Your best bet at finding your father is working with another hunter. I'm sure Caleb would be more than willing to help. Bobby, too, despite his current relationship with John."

Jim looks him sternly in the eye until Dean has to look away.

"I just need information from Sam," Dean says, looking at the counter Jim is leaning on. He sighs and looks up to meet the pastor's eyes. "Has he ever told you _anything_ about what happened?"

Jim shakes his head slowly, his expression softens. "I had thought, once, that it would help Sam to talk about it. Of course, he wasn't talking so I gave him some paper and a pen. I tried for months and months, so did the therapist, but Sam wouldn't say a word. Not even on paper. Any time we tried to coax something from him, he would… break down. I think that's the best word for it."

Dean had seen plenty of Sam's _breakdowns_ before they'd finally decided to leave him with Jim. There were countless motels rooms they would never get their deposits back from.

Dean glances down to the table where Sam's notebook lies closed.

"You never read this?" Dean asks. Jim moves away from the counter and takes a seat next to him.

"I was just pleased he was writing at all. He hadn't made any attempts to speak before… I thought it would be best to be patient and give him space."

Dean pushes the book over to Jim. "Either Sam is crazier than I thought, or he really does know something about Dad."

Jim frowns at him, then looks away, down to the notebook. He lifts the cover and scans the first page. His frown returns to his face and he glances briefly at Dean. Dean watches him flip through, faster as he goes. Finally, he closes the book and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I'd thought he was improving. He'd had fewer outbursts, he was working in the garden, he even came to church with me a few times. I should've known," he mutters, "that keeping those secrets to himself is hurting him."

Dean leans forward. "I know he's scared, but don't you get why I need him to tell me what happened? Something horrible happened to my little brother and I had no idea until it was too late. I still don't know what happened to him. I don't know what took him. I was supposed to look out for him, Jim."

Jim smiles softly and places a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

"I was supposed to look out for him," Dean says again. He drops his head and stares at the bruises on his knuckles, the cracked nail on his left thumb.

"He's alive, Dean," Jims says. "That's because of you."

Dean snorts. "Me? The kid saved himself. I was just there."

Jim doesn't answer that. Instead, he says, "Sam knows what you need to know, but I don't think he'll tell you."

"But it's _Dad_. That has to mean something to Sam."

Jim says, "It means everything to him. Dean, have you considered that Sam _wants_ to help, he just _can't_?"

Dean furrows his brow. "How do you mean?"

Jim folds his hands in front of him on the table. "Sam has been scarred deeply. He's wounded emotionally and psychologically. Believe it or not, those wounds are the same as physical ones. If you broke your leg, could you run on it?"

"No…" Dean answers hesitantly, confused.

"Exactly. Something is broken in Sam, do you expect him to run?"

* * *

_Sam – 8_ _th_ _June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

The Impala kicked up a storm of dust on its way down the driveway. Sam sat on the porch and watched the car turn around the corner and out of sight, taking his dad and brother with it. He sighed and fiddled with a loose screw on the porch railing, feeling the summer heat settle onto his skin.

The house seemed bigger with no one else around. He glanced back, through the open door and into the empty hallway, and pondered last night's dream.

Because it had to have been a dream.

He'd checked with his dad that morning and been assured that the whole house was safely warded. John had searched every inch of the place himself and it came up clean. No ghosts, ghouls, monsters or anything of the sort.

Still, Sam felt the skin on his arms prickle up despite the summer heat.

He looked away, over to a pasture to the right of the house. A short distance away, he could see the gleam of a lake. With so much time alone he might as well make use of it. Sam picked up his backpack from the step next to him and closed the front door behind him. He climbed over the fence into the field and set off.

The grass crunched beneath his sneakers, brown and dry from the heat. He could hear crickets making noise nearby, something whizzed by his ear with a loud buzz, the sun beat down on him. Sam trudged on, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

The pond was bigger than he'd expected, and it was clean enough that he could see the bottom of the pool. Tadpoles zipped around in the shallows and tickled his toes when he dipped his feet in. The water was perfectly cool. Sam pulled a towel from his bag and hung it over a nearby tree branch, then he stripped down and waded in.

He spied a tire swing on the opposite side and swam over to get a better look. The rope seemed intact, the branch it hung from seemed sturdy enough. He'd tell Dean about it later and maybe they could come back… if Dean wasn't busy, that is.

Sam paddled around a bit, enjoying the cool water, splashing about and inspecting fish that were brave enough to swim by. He paddled back to the shore to find his watch. Two hours had passed. His brother and dad said they'd be back for dinner which meant it was more likely they'd be back by midnight.

He towelled himself off and re-dressed before heading off again, this time in the direction of a house down the hill. Maybe he could introduce himself to the neighbours. Maybe he was just that bored.

He found an elderly woman in the garden. Despite the dry heat, her flowers were green and blooming. She looked up and smiled, dark skin crinkling around her mouth.

"Don't get many visitors up here," she said, placing a watering can down on the ground. "And who might you be?"

Sam stepped up to the gate and held out his hand for the woman to shake. She took it; her hand was warm and her fingers were covered in soil. "My name is Sam, Ma'am. Me and my family just moved into the house over there."

Sam pointed in the direction. From there, the house was the size of his thumb. The old woman stared at the house for a long moment, expressionless. She pasted on a smile and turned back to Sam.

"Would you like to come in, dear?"

A moment later Sam was sitting on her porch with an iced tea in hand. He sipped it appreciatively. The woman, Annette, sat beside him and fanned herself.

"Where did you move from?" she asked.

"We were staying at my uncle's up in South Dakota," Sam replied after another drink.

"This heat must be shock for you," Annette commented. "I've lived here all my life and I still think it's too damn hot."

Sam chuckled and Annette smiled. "Sam, how old are you?" she asked.

"Turned thirteen last month."

Annette nodded to herself, her expression falling. "Sam, I – "

She began to speak, but quickly halted herself. She turned a little in her seat and placed a wrinkled hand over Sam's.

"Watch out for yourself," she finally said. "I saw a car leave your drive this morning so I'm guessin' you're by yourself."

Sam shrugged. "It's okay. I know how to take care of myself."

Annette smiled a little. "I'm sure you can, sweetie. Just keep yourself safe, is what I'm saying. Things can be dangerous this far out into the country."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"How about when you're on your own at home, you come here to spend the day with me?" Annette quickly changed the subject. "That way, we can keep each other company 'til your family comes home. It would put my mind at ease to know you're not by yourself."

That sweet smile was still there on her face but the grip she had on Sam's hand was almost painfully tight. Her eyes were strained, unblinking.

Sam swallowed and tried to ease his hand away. "I'm not sure…" he hedged, looking away. "I'd have to ask my dad. Actually, I'll have to be heading home soon."

Sam slipped off the porch seat and scooped up his back pack. He handed the glass back to Annette and stepped back. "Thank you for the tea, ma'am," Sam said, already halfway through the garden. "Goodbye!"

He stepped through the gate and walked back across the field at a hurried pace.

"You be careful, Sam!" Annette called after him. "You watch yourself!"

Sam didn't bother looking back. He kept his eyes forward and ran.

* * *

_Dean – June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota_

He spends the night at Jim's. The two of them sit through a silent dinner of vegetable soup and home-made bread. Despite Jim's kind words earlier, Dean can feel the irritation coming off him. Jim is quiet about his emotions, but those tired sighs and disapproving glares say a lot.

 _Thanks for fucking everything up_. But Sam isn't Jim's responsibility. Sam is Dean's responsibility. But does Dean even have the right anymore?

Dean hasn't seen Sam since his little brother tackled him to the ground that afternoon. For someone so skinny, he sure can hold his own in a fight. But he won't come down to eat. He won't leave his room. Dean doesn't blame him when he'd acted like such an ass. He can't just turn up only once in a while and ask for something so big.

Dean rubs a hand against his eye. God, when did things become so screwed up? He was supposed to look out for Sam. He hasn't looked out for Sam in a long time. Not really.

_Look out for Sammy._

"You're thinking very loudly," Jim comments. Dean startles and realises the kitchen table has been cleared. Jim is at the sink, washing dishes. He pauses and holds out a towel for Dean.

Jim washes, Dean dries. Neither of them talk.

An hour or so later finds Dean alone in the kitchen, sipping some cheap whiskey he'd picked up at a liquor store. Jim went to bed, and now the house is eerily quiet. There's a pillow and some blankets laid out on the couch for Dean, but he's not tired. Every time he tries to close his eyes he starts to think about his dad.

Dean takes another sip of alcohol and grabs Sam's notebook from where he left it by his duffel.

_She'll be hungry again._

That tells him something. Whatever this monster is, it's apparently a she-bitch. Witch? Banshee? Vetala?

A witch is a possibility. Since they're human, they wouldn't be picked up by EMF. But what would a witch have wanted with a thirteen-year-old boy? How could a witch hide from two hunters in the same house?

Banshee. Not likely. Banshees don't take prey. They scream, they feed. End of. Sam would have been dead straight off the bat.

Vetala? Also unlikely. Vetala feed three times before the victim is killed. After a two months, Sam would have been dead. Besides, there were no bite marks to be found on Sam's skin.

Dean closes his eyes and tries to think back. At the time, he hadn't tried to catch all the details, he'd been too busy trying to calm down a seriously traumatised Sam. It's a good thing his dad never leaves a single stone unturned. There's about half of a page in John's journal documenting Sam's reappearance. Dean had found his dad's journal in the truck when he'd gone to Georgia to find him.

He flicks through it and finds the right page.

 _August 15_ _th_ _'97 – Sammy_

_Sam wandered out from the house four hours after Dean and I arrived. Both of us checked every inch of house on arrival and found nothing (creature's nest hidden?) He won't speak, showing signs of shock, malnourishment, dehydration. Collapses and is taken to Joshua for treatment._

_August 16_ _th_

_Sam is still unconscious. Josh found bruising around his wrists and ankles (likely bound) and bruising and scratches on other parts of body, mainly back and shoulders (claws?). No signs of bite marks. No severe blood loss. Missing patches of hair at front, likely pulled out._

_August 17_ _th_

_Sammy woke up. Still won't talk. Possibly catatonic._

_October '97_

_Noticed hair re-growth at front of scalp. New hair is white. Checked with Josh – he says white hair caused by shock is a myth. Sam still won't talk._

That's it.

Dean thinks that John documented more but decided to store the information elsewhere. Dean blows out a breath. His dad's need-to-know basis is really beginning to piss him off.

There are only two people who can help him with this hunt. One of them is missing. The other won't talk. Dean sighs and pours another glass of whiskey, he's about to knock it back in one go when he notices Sam standing in the doorway.

"Uh, hey," Dean says. He places the glass back on the table. Sam is still as a statue, if you ignore the shaky hands. Dean's beginning to wonder if he should fetch Jim, but Sam takes a deep inhale and sits down opposite. He places a pen and a piece of paper on the table in front of him and looks Dean in the eye.

Dean swallows, hope bubbling in his gut. "Sammy…"

Sam shakes his head, ignoring him, and picks up the pen. He leans over and spends a minute or so trying to write and keep his head steady at the same time. Dean can't see what's being written; Sam's bent so far over that his hair blocks the view.

Without looking up, Sam slides the paper over. Dean looks down and reads.

_Dad won't be dead yet._

Dean reads and re-reads, then he looks back to Sam with surprise. "What has him, Sammy?"

Still looking down at the table top, Sam reaches out and pulls the paper back towards him. He scribbles something else out and shows it to Dean.

_Something bad._

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He knows pushing Sam won't help either of them, but he's growing impatient. "Could you be more specific?"

Sam shoots him a glare and writes something else.

_I don't know what She is._

"How do you know it's a she?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs. He leans forwards and writes something else.

_She doesn't want dad. Dad is bait._

"For who?" But Dean has a feeling he already knows. Sam's face is sagging miserably; he looks on the verge of tears as he gestures to himself. He writes again.

_She doesn't like us getting away. She likes to keep us._

Dean stares at the paper for a long moment. When he looks back up, Sam is crying. Sam hastily wipes at his eyes, his face turning pink. He grabs the paper out of Dean's hand again and writes one last time. He holds it up for Dean to see.

_You won't find dad without me. She'll only come out if I'm there._

"Sammy, you want to come?" Dean asks, confused.

Sam shakes his head.

Dean understands. "You have to come," he says. He watches Sam for a moment. He sees his brother's pale skin crinkling around his eyes like paper as he sobs quietly to himself. Dean watches Sam and feels miles away from him.

He pushes out of his seat and rounds the table, kneeling by Sam's side. Sam gulps back another sob and looks at Dean, brow furrowed curiously. Dean reaches out and pulls Sam into his arms, gently pushing his head to rest on his shoulder. Sam is stiff for a moment and Dean wonders if he'll pull away, but Sam sinks into it and lets his tears fall.

* * *

_Sam – 8_ _th_ _June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

He was panting, breaths heaving in and out painfully, by the time he made it back to the house. He could still feel Annette's strong grip still lingering on his hand. Sweat slicked his skin, gluing his shirt to his back, clinging onto his hair.

He ran straight up the porch steps and into the hall. He locked the door behind him and dropped onto the carpet tiredly. It made no sense to be so afraid of an old woman, but Sam had always prided himself on his near-perfect intuition. Something about Annette had chilled his spine worse than the empty house did.

Glancing up at the empty hall, up the deserted stairs, he felt the weight of loneliness on him like a ton of bricks. And he felt fear in his belly like fire tickling at his insides, ready to rise and swallow him up. He needed his dad. He needed Dean. He needed to be anywhere but there.

There was a huge feeling of _badwrongdangerous_ blaring in his mind. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't put his finger on what precisely frightened him. Was is really Annette? Or was it the way she'd looked at the house once he'd told her that was where he lived?

Either way, he was feeling skittish as a trapped animal and he couldn't tell exactly why.

He managed to peel himself from the carpet and make his way into the kitchen. He turned on the tap and filled up a glass of water. He swallowed it in one go and went back to fill it again. He paused, noticing the reflection in the window above the sink.

There was someone behind him. A child. A twisted face, mouth stretched open, eyes blank and empty…

He spun around, glass slipping from his grip and smashing on the tile floor. There was no one there. Nothing but the _drip drip drip_ of the broken tap behind him. Sam made a dash for the cupboard and grabbed a box of salt. He held it close to his chest and made a run for the stairs.

He made it to his father's room and closed the door behind himself. An EMF meter was lying on the bedside table, it lit up faintly. Sam didn't know if he should be relieved or afraid. There was a ghost in the house, he knew that for sure now, but he had never put a spirit to rest on his own before.

Ghosts could get nasty, especially if they were vengeful. Sam remembered the horrific expression on the spirit's face and decided that, yes, the ghost was definitely vengeful. He kept the salt in one hand and used the other to look through his dad's drawers. In a jacket pocket he found exactly what he needed.

Sam flipped open the spare cell and dialled his dad's number by heart. He was greeted by voicemail. The same happened with Dean.

Terrible thoughts flooded his mind. _Why aren't they answering? Are they hurt? Are they_ dead?

_Who will help me?_

Sam could shoot a werewolf straight through the heart on a good day, he could probably salt and burn bones no problem by himself for the first time right now. But he'd never get used to it. He'd never not be afraid of this.

He turned back to the door, deciding that he'd take his chances walking the two hours it took to get into town. Anywhere would be better than being alone with a ghost in a crooked old house.

She was in the doorway. If it weren't for the pigtails and the skirt, Sam wouldn't have known if she was a girl. Her face was white, too white. Her mouth was open, too wide like her jaw was snapped. But her eyes. They were just empty sockets. Black voids.

She shrieked and came forwards, limbs clicking and twisting like they were broken. She half-crawled towards him and Sam was so afraid he momentarily forgot about the salt in his hand. Then she was on him, her mouth right over his face, screaming. She gripped his arms and he felt his skin go ice cold. His fingers were stiff as he tried to reach for the box of salt.

There was a sharp _bang_ and the ghost girl was gone. Sam was showered with shards of salt and he sat up, trembling. His brother and father stood in the doorway; John held a shotgun, Dean was behind, wide-eyed.

Sam gulped and pushed himself to his feet. "Dean, can I sleep in your room tonight?"

* * *

Dean paced the kitchen floor. Sam watched him, eyes moving back and forth. It was dark outside the window. The moon shone at its fullest, hanging in the sky, watching. Dean paused in his pacing, swinging his shotgun at his side.

"Shouldn't Dad be back by now?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. How long does it take to dig up a grave on your own?" he wondered. The question was a serious one but Dean scowled at Sam like he was being sarcastic. He went back to pacing.

Sam sighed. "Dean, would you quit it?" he said. Dean stopped and dropped into a kitchen chair, gun resting on the table in front of him. "What's up with you?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced at Sam, brow furrowed worriedly. "Sammy, I'm so sorry."

Sam blinked. "What? Why?"

"I'm supposed to look out for you," Dean said. "And I left you with a freaking ghost. If me and Dad had been back a second later…"

"But you were back," Sam interrupted. "And now Dad's going to burn the bones. The whole thing will be over by midnight. Then we can move on to somewhere else."

"Not until we finish the hunt."

Sam frowned. "The ghost girl wasn't the hunt?"

"Nope. She was just a bonus," Dean replied. He grinned a little. "Count on us to move into a haunted house, huh?"

Sam wasn't listening, his mind was further back in the conversation. "Wait. So this ghost isn't to do with the hunt?"

"Nope," Dean answers as he checks the gun's barrel.

"How did she die?"

"Dad looked up the house records real quick. Some girl fell down the stairs here like a hundred years ago. Just a regular kind of death that turned into a vengeful spirit."

"So…" Sam ventured. "What are you and Dad hunting?"

"Top secret info, Sammy," Dean replied.

Sam groaned. "Is it seriously that bad?"

Dean shrugged. "No worse than what we normally do. The job is just harder. It's gonna take longer. Maybe Dad just doesn't think you're ready for such a big case."

"But that's not fair, you can't – "

But Dean wasn't listening. He was up on his feet, quick as a flash, aiming the gun into the hallway. Sam just turned around in time to catch a glimpse of the ghost girl before she evaporated in a shower of rock salt.

Dean dropped back into his seat. "She's kinda slow," he said. "She doesn't turn up that often, or come at us too fast, if at all." He shrugged and kicked his feet up onto the table. I guess Dad's not done with the bones yet."

The two of them waited for another hour. The ghost didn't show up again. By the time their Dad came through the door he was covered in dirt. He nodded at them when he entered the kitchen and dropped a greasy paper bag onto the table.

"Ghost should be gone by now," he announced. He sat by Sam and reached out to ruffled his hair softly. Sam wasn't even bothered about getting grave dirt in his hair.

John pointed to the bag. "Picked up some dinner on the way back. I think we should eat up, then head to bed."

Sam mostly picked at his food. His stomach felt queasy and the thought of consuming a burger that size only made him want to gag. Dean, however, was more than happy to take Sam's leftovers. He even drank both cups of soda fast enough to make Sam dizzy.

Sam followed Dean up to bed and lingered in the doorway. Dean paused in changing his clothes and looked at Sam. He sighed.

"You can stay in here tonight," he answered Sam's unasked question. Sam tried to not run too fast up to the attic room to change into his pyjamas. The great big emptiness of the room made him feel uneasy and he was back in Dean's room in under a minute.

Sam curled up tight under Dean's blanket, despite the heat. Dean was flopped out beside him, drifting off on top of the covers, bare-chested and already sweating. Sam kept his eyes wide open, watching the end of the hall where he'd seen the ghost the night before.

_The ghost is gone._

_Go to sleep and stop being a wuss._

At some point Sam must have slipped away into sleep. He didn't know he'd been sleeping at all until he felt the weight disappear on the mattress beside him, and he opened his eyes to find the clock displaying that it was 2am. Dean sat at the edge of the bed, slumped forward tiredly. He got to his feet, a little unsteady in the dark, and felt his way over to the door.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. Dean paused and turned. Sam could just about see the slight whites of his sleepy eyes in the moonlight.

"Just going to take a leak," Dean told him groggily. And he stumbled off down the hall, no doubt more asleep than awake.

Sam settled back into the pillows. Despite the almost unbearable heat under the covers, Sam remained, heart pounding. He couldn't for the life of him put his finger on what frightened him. He hadn't been afraid of the dark since he was ten years old. He'd been hunting monsters since he was nine. Why on earth was he shaking like he was some regular kid, afraid of the monster under his bed?

He felt a chill on his skin and let out a frigid breath. The room was icy. He could see cold fog climbing the glass of the windows, clouding the moonlit darkness outside. Sam sat up, keeping the covers wrapped around his shoulders. He flitted his gaze around the dark room, hands reaching out for any of the weapons Dean usually kept close at night.

"Dean!" he yelled, as loud as he could.

She was there. It was the same ghost, standing at the foot of the bed. Sam stared at her grotesquely twisted mouth and her dark, empty eyes, unable to look away. He almost slipped as he scrambled desperately off the bed and into the corner.

He stayed there, back pressed to the wall, and yelled again, "DEAN!"

She wasn't moving. She was just staring at him, Sam realised. The ghost wasn't coming for him, instead she pointed. Sam followed the direction of her finger. She pointed under the bed.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, shivering in the cold. His teeth were beginning to chatter, rattling his skull.

The ghost kept pointing. Then she stopped and she raised her white hands to her face and buried herself in them. Sam frowned as he realised she was crying.

"Sam!" he could hear Dean running down the hall. He could see him coming for him. The bedroom door slammed shut and the room went dark, the hallway light was shut out. The door rattled frantically, Dean's voice bellowing Sam's name on the other side. He could hear his dad, too.

Something shifted in the shadows under the bed and Sam pressed himself further into the wall, as if he hoped he might sink through it. There was a scratching sound, a clicking, the huff of hot breath.

Then he saw it. He saw the barest hint of its skin under the moonlight as it came crawling out from under the bed. In the dark, Sam could hardly make out more than the shape of it where it was crouched by the bed, hunched and shifting. It seemed no bigger than Sam himself, but then it stood on thin legs and rose up and up.

And Sam looked into its face.

"Oh God," he whispered, he barely heard his own voice over the rushing in his ears. And he couldn't move, he couldn't make another sound, gripped too tightly with fear.

He felt cold flesh on the skin of his ankle and he was falling, smacking his head on the hardwood. He felt his body scrape along the floor as he was pulled under the bed, his fingers scrambled to find something to hold onto.

Then, there was nothing but the Dark.


	4. Chapter Three

_Pastor Jim – 18_ _th_ _June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota_

There's something enchanting about an empty church. Of course, he loves the lively joy of full pews as his flock prays and sing hymns together. But here in his church, with twilight filtering through stained glass windows, he has only the company of God.

Jim kneels in one of the front pews, resting his clasped hands over the bible as closes his eyes.

He recites a prayer. A simple one that even a faithless man might know. It's a prayer he recites with his flock for every Sunday service. It's a prayer he recites before bed. He recites it now and feels it fall short like loose leaves drifting to the ground.

He needs stronger words if he wants God to really hear.

He opens his mouth, but pauses. He thinks a moment, choosing his words, pulling them from where they rest in his heart.

"Dear, God," he begins, speaking aloud, "I have served you for many years now. I don't ask much of you, only that you watch over those who have no one to protect them. I have protected Sam Winchester for almost three years now. I have fed him at my table, dressed him, kept him warm. I've done my best to keep him safe. I'd loved the boy dearly for many years, but these past three years I've come to love him like my own son."

Jim looks up and meets the white, marble eyes of the Virgin Mary.

"One of God's gifts to mankind was freewill and I know I must respect the will of Sam. But, you see, Sam has made a decision to return to something that has scarred him deeply. He is a fragile boy, and I don't believe this is something he has the strength for. He can't do this without you. I beg you, Lord, keep Sam safe. Spare some of your light to guide him on this dark path. Protect him, Lord. Amen."

Jim crosses his heart and leans forward onto his hands, reciting that same little prayer, hoping that God might hear him. The wooden floor creaks beside him and he looks up to find Sam there. Sam smiles softly and places a trembling hand on Jim's shoulder. Jim clasps his own hand over Sam's and holds it steady.

And suddenly Sam is wrapped around him, leaning his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim returns the embrace fully, holding the boy like he has no intention of letting go.

"Sam, I know you have made a decision," Jim says. Sam nods into the crook of his neck to show he's listening. "I'm worried, Sam. You find it so hard to leave your room some days. How will you manage a trip to Georgia? How will you go back to that house?"

Sam lifts his head. He shrugs a little, his expression is sincere.

"You have to," Jim sighs. "I know you believe you have no choice here, but you do. I know you're worried about your father, but John made his own decision. You shouldn't have to pay for it."

Sam frowns at him, disapproving. He reaches out and places his palm over Jim's chest. The same way Jim does for Sam when he's having a bad night.

"You're right," Jim admits. "I'm terrified for you. And maybe I'm thinking selfishly here, but I wish you wouldn't go. How will you protect yourself?"

Sam thrusts a thumb over his shoulder.

Jim sighs again, deeply. "I know you have Dean, but what if Dean isn't there, even just for a moment?"

Sam shakes his head. No answer.

"Sam, I'm afraid," Jim says. Sam smiles a little and raises his shaking hand. The tremble itself says _me too_.

Jim leans forward again, clasping his hands. "Pray with me?" he asks. Sam shifts in the seat and mimics Jim's position. Together, they pray silently.

* * *

 _John – May 2_ _nd_ _2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota_

The brown paper wrapping trembled under Sam's hands, his head was bowed forward, the white patch of hair at the front covered his face. It was a longer process than it should have been, but Sammy's hands had been like wind-up toys for nearly four years. Four years of shaky hands, complete silence and panic attacks. Any time Sam smiled, it was the brightest thing John had ever seen.

It was a rare occurrence.

Sam smiled now as he finally pulled the last of the wrapping away to reveal a well-worn book. John had found it for ten dollars at thrift store. The thing was apparently an original copy and there were notes in the margins that he was sure Sam would like. It had spent the last month or so wedged between sawed-offs in the back of his trunk.

Sam reached over and touched John's shoulder, smiling again. He held the book up and tapped it, then tapped his own chest. _I love it_ was simple enough for John to translate.

"I'm glad," John replied. "I just thought it would help you with the garden. When you showed me all your plants last time I was here, I could see how happy it makes you. Sammy, you don't know how happy it makes me to see you happy."

Sam ducked his head shyly and carefully touched the cover, admiring the illustrations of flowers and trees. _The_ _Anatomy of a Plant_ was written beautifully across the top.

"Happy birthday, kiddo," John added. He watched Sam flip slowly through the book for a few minutes, then he checked his watch. Dean still wasn't there.

If you'd asked him a few years ago if Dean would purposely distance himself from Sam, he wouldn't have believed it. Now, Dean buried himself in work, darting around the country too fast for even John to catch him face-to-face.

Dean was running as much as Sam was. Sam was running from whatever happened in Georgia by keeping his mouth shut. Dean was running from the guilt of it by hunting. And John was probably running, too. He could count on both hands how often he visited Sam per year. He would have to change that.

He was about to grab his phone to call Dean when he heard a heavy engine growl in the driveway. John and Sam peered over to the window to see the Impala pull up. He'd given Dean the old thing when he upgraded to the black truck he had now. Not long after, his oldest took on hunting solo.

Dean stepped out and waved brightly, holding up a crudely wrapped package. A moment later, Dean followed Jim into the living room.

"Happy birthday, birthday boy!" Dean called. He dropped down into the spare armchair and placed the gift on the coffee table. Sam waved a small greeting, then he slid his hands under his legs to keep them still.

Dean frowned. "Aren't you gonna open it?"

Sam nodded and brought up a hand, holding up one finger. _In a minute_. Dean frowned again, but Sam pointed over his shoulder towards the kitchen just as the oven timer  _pinged_. Jim announced dinner and the three of them followed him to the table.

Sam didn't talk much, he didn't talk at all, but he paid attention to everything. No doubt the kid had been counting down the timer to the second in his head.

They had macaroni and cheese. John knew it wasn't Sam's favourite meal but Jim insisted that Sam had requested it. Honestly, John had thought Sam hated having to eat the crap when he'd lived with them on the road. Jim had roasted some vegetables and grilled a few vege-hotdogs to go with it. Dean didn't touch anything but the macaroni, eyeing the meat-free hotdogs suspiciously. Sam didn't eat meat, not anymore.

Sam ate slowly, his trembling hands didn't allow for much more than complete and utter care. No wonder he'd decided to open Dean's present after they'd eaten. It would have taken at least ten minutes to get Dean's excessive amounts of tape off the thing.

After dinner, they ate cake. Sam blew all seventeen candles out one by one, not bothering with birthday wishes. It was strawberry cake made by one of the women at Jim's church, who'd taken quite a shine to Sam.

"Sam helped Leanne with her geraniums a couple of weeks ago. She said he's got a real green finger," Jim told them.

Dean snorted. If Sam heard, he didn't let on, just carefully cut a portion of cake off with the side of his fork before bringing it to his mouth. John glared at Dean, who he was sure sometimes forgot that Sam wasn't deaf as well as mute.

Dean might have seemed like he wasn't understanding when it came to Sam's condition, and maybe that was true, but John was sure that Dean was just afraid. Dean thought the whole thing was his fault, everything that had happened to Sam, and maybe he stayed away because he didn't want to cause any more damage.

They ended up back in the living room, watching Sam spend a painstakingly long amount of time to unwrap Dean's gift. When he was done he unfolded the paper to reveal an assortment of things: candy bars, a pocket-sized copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , some plant seeds, and a photograph of the two of them when Sam was four years old and John had thought it would be a good idea to take them to a fun fair.

Sam smiled, carefully setting the gifts onto the table next to John's book. Sam paused and picked up a bracelet at the bottom of the wrapping paper that he'd missed.

"Got that from a psychic I met in Louisiana," Dean explained, leaning forward in his seat. "She helped me with a case, then at some point I mentioned it was your birthday coming up. She already knew, of course, being psychic and all. She made the thing by hand, promised it would bring protection."

Sam grinned, teeth showing. John hadn't seen a smile like that in a long time. Sam reached out a trembling hand and dropped the bracelet into Dean's hand. Dean fastened it around Sam's wrist and patted his arm.

"Lookin' badass," he said. Still, John saw the sadness in his eyes.

How different would things have been if John had never rented that house? Sam would probably be about to graduate from high school, ready to hunt full time. Sam would still speak. He would be able to firmly shake a person's hand…

A lot of things would be different, but John couldn't change the past. All he knew was hunting. And maybe hunting down the thing in that house in Georgia, the thing that hurt his boy, was the only thing he could do to make things right.

* * *

 _Dean – 19_ _t_ _h_ _June 2000, On the road._

Dean admits that he's always dreamed about being on the road with Sam, just the two of them. The dream started when his father taught him to drive on some middle-of-nowhere road when he was twelve. Most kids dream about going into space or becoming rich and famous. Not Dean. Dean dreamed of freedom with his brother by his side.

He can remember that first time he'd been driving, the wheel under his hands, the peddle under his feet, and he'd felt at home. He remembers, just as clearly, looking to his dad in the passenger seat, then to Sam in the back, and thinking that one day it would be him and Sam out on the road.

And when his dad gave him the Impala on his eighteenth birthday, he remembers taking Sam out for a ride. They went through a drive thru and ate fries, driving out to nowhere in particular, laughing and singing off-key to Dean's cassettes. And Dean remembers thinking how right it felt.

Just him and Sam.

But not long after that Sam went missing, and a little while after that Sam came back different.

And now things would never be like they were supposed to.

Dean drives with the radio on low. He'd had it turned off for the first half hour but Sam had seemed fidgety, so Dean put the radio on, then he had to turn it down when Sam's fidgeting got worse. In between, with the volume down low, Sam seems as relaxed as he can be.

They don't talk. Of course they don't talk. Because Sam gave up talking four years ago.

Dean hates to admit that it's awkward. He wishes he could say something to fill the near-silence but he knows he'll get no response. He notices that Sam looks at him now and then. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, keeps his focus on the road, pretends he doesn't see Sam looking.

He wonders if Sam wants to say something. If he wants to speak, why doesn't he? He wishes he could understand. He wishes it so badly. But there are things about Sam that he can't make sense of. A lot of things. He loves Sam so damn much… it just feels like if Dean gives him even the barest touch, it might send Sam shattering into a million pieces.

It's all his fault. And now Sam's coming with him to find Dad. He's putting himself in danger, again, and Dean is letting him. Maybe there are things about himself that he can't make sense of.

He spots a sign just before it flashes out of sight. He grins and turns to Sam. "You hungry?"

Sam nods slowly, hesitantly, like he doesn't really know the answer.

"There's a diner a couple of miles up ahead. We'll stop there for a bit," Dean says it like a question, trying to sound more patient than he really is. When he glances at Sam, Sam is looking out of the window, like he never heard Dean speak at all. It's more likely that he's just ignoring him. Sam does that to people sometimes when he doesn't feel like making an effort to communicate.

Dean sighs and looks back to the road.

The diner is identical to the thousands of others they've stopped at across the country. At this point in his life, Dean couldn't say how many diners he's eaten at, and he certainly couldn't tell you how many motels he's slept in.

There's a big luminous sign on top of the building that reads _Elle's Diner_. The words are pink and one of the _E_ 's has flickered out. The windows are wide and clean enough that he can see that the place is barely even a quarter full. It should be fine for Sam, who doesn't do well with big crowds.

Dean holds the door open for Sam, who's hands are busy being stuffed in his pockets, chattering away under the fabric of his coat like there's ice in there. The two of them have barely set one foot inside before a waitress in a short, pink uniform pops out of nowhere.

"Table for two?" she assumes. The sudden sound of her voice makes Sam jolt but the waitress doesn't seem to notice. She leads them over to a table in the centre without waiting for an answer from either of them. Dean stops her by clearing his throat.

"Do you mind if we sit in a corner?" he asks, lowering his voice so only the waitress can hear. The waitress, whose nametag reads Haylee, purses her lips. She seems a little irritated, but she quickly pastes on a bright smile and shows them to a booth in the corner.

Sammy is glancing around nervously and has removed his hands from his pockets, wringing them like he's trying to get them clean, so Dean quickly ushers him into his seat. Dean sits so he's facing out into the rest of the diner, keeping a lookout for anyone who might bother Sam.

And Sam. Sam is now tapping his twitchy hands against the table in a simple rhythm. Already, Dean is wondering if takeout might have been a better choice. He's pretty sure it would have been. But Dean doesn't always think things through…

"Would you like to order some drinks?" the waitress is back again, appearing out of nowhere like a rabbit out of a magician's hat. Sam doesn't jump this time, he's too busy retreating into his corner of the booth, shrinking down until his chin's almost under the table.

Haylee the waitress stares at Sam for a second, looking like whatever she's thinking isn't exactly polite. Dean clears his throat sharply and she turns her gaze on him.

"Just water. Thanks."

She nods and turns away, casting one last glance at Sam, who is now reappearing a little once she's out of sight. Dean grabs a menu from the stand and drops it in front of Sam.

"Whatever you want," Dean offers. Sam nods and looks down at the menu intently as if he'd rather melt into the pink, printed words than stay out here in the real world.

Dean leans back and scopes the area. A few truckers are sitting at the bar, a couple is in the middle of a dispute on the other side of the room, and two tables away is a family with about four kids under the age of ten. Not much to be wary about. Still, Dean feels for his Glock at the back of his belt, just to make sure it's there.

The waitress comes back again with water and asks for their orders. Dean takes his usual; a greasy double cheeseburger with everything on it. Sam asks for the vege-special by pointing to it on the menu, looking anywhere but at the waitress. When Haylee the waitress seems to notice something isn't quite right with Sam, her expression turns from irritation to pity. Dean isn't sure which is worse. She leaves and Sam lets out a long breath.

"You're doing good, Sammy," Dean says. The glare he gets from Sam tells him it mustn't have been the right thing to say. Too patronising. God. Dean sucks.

He's trying to think of a new thing to say when a small voice pipes up.

"What's wrong with your hair?" It's one of the kids from a couple of tables away. She's probably no taller than Dean's knee but she sure has a loud voice and everyone in the near vicinity, who is everyone in the diner, looks their way.

Sam turns his head and focuses on a crack in the wallpaper, probably trying to blend into his surroundings, which is hard when you're six foot two and constantly trembling like a snowstorm follows you around each and every day. The kid is still staring, waiting for an answer, but the mom comes hurrying over and grabs the girl's hand.

"I am so, _so_ sorry," she gasps. She glances at Sam, pity making its way onto her face. "Is your friend alright?"

"He's fine," Dean says quickly.

The woman gives him an apologetic nod and moves to turn away but the girl digs her heels in.

"But, Mommy, that man has white hair! His hair's white at the front!" she exclaims. Sam curls in tighter on himself, clenching his eyes shut.

"Annabelle! Be quiet!" the mother hisses. She turns to Dean, "I am really sorry."

Dean shuffles forward in his seat, trying to block Sam out of sight. He's thinking about giving the brat a piece of his mind, but it's probably not such a good idea because the kid's only about three years old, and he doesn't think the mother would appreciate him yelling at her toddler.

He notices the wonder in her eyes and he realises. She isn't making fun of Sam, she doesn't think he's weird like most adults would. She thinks Sam is pretty damn cool.

Dean smiles a little. "You wanna know why his hair's white?" he asks the little girl. She nods enthusiastically.

"Well," Dean explains, "it's because he can control the weather. Ever heard of the X-men?"

The girl shakes her head.

"They're a group of superheroes," Dean tells her. "My brother here's a member. They call him Storm. You know how sunny the weather's been? That's because of Sam."

The girl gapes and looks over at Sam.

Dean presses his finger to his lips. "But don't tell anyone, okay? It's his day off from fighting super villains."

The girl nods seriously.

Meanwhile, Sam has uncurled himself from the corner a little and he's staring at Dean with much the same expression as the girl, part confused and part amazed. The woman is smiling softly as she manages to steer her daughter back over to their table.

Dean looks to Sam and smiles. Sam smiles back and Dean is so surprised he can't speak for a second. Irony, huh? Sam brings up his hand and presses the tips of his fingers to his chin then moves his hand away in a small motion. Sammy doesn't use sign language much, or at all, because he doesn't like to speak. But their dad had tried to get them all to learn some signs when it became clear Sam didn't plan on talking any time soon.

 _Thank you_ , Sam had said.

And Dean smiles even harder.

But still, Sam's hands are shaking like leaves in a busy storm, and Dean can't help but ask himself something he's been wondering for years.

What the hell happened to Sam?

* * *

_Sam – Unknown, In The Dark_

He was cold. So cold.

There was nothing but black. Everything was pitch black.

Something was hard beneath him. He reached out and felt nothing but air.

There wasn't enough air. He couldn't breathe. He was panting, panicking, losing air.

 _Help_ , he croaked. The sound of his voice travelled away into the dark and didn't come back. He called again and again until he couldn't anymore, sobbing too hard to get a word out.

He forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled, feeling out for something, anything. Nothing but darkness.

He was suffocating in the Dark. He couldn't even see his own fingers in front of his face.

Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?

If there was a way in, there had to be a way out.

Something was glowing. There was light up ahead. Sam crawled faster. He didn't know how long he'd been moving but his body ached and his knees felt bruised. By the time he got to the light, it began to flicker. And he realised.

Ghosts.

Children. Just like the girl in the house. They were different ages. Some seemed as small as five, and some seemed only a little older than Sam himself. Their eyes turned to him, just as dark and empty as the blackness surrounding them.

Their faces were all fixed in terror, but it was more than that. They were all so miserably sad.

"What did this to you?" Sam asked, keeping his voice as low as he could. He received no answer.

He saw her. The same girl from the house. She came close, face-to-face. Sam felt the chill of her and shuddered.

"You were trying to warn me," Sam realised.

Her head titled ever so slightly in a nod. She reached out a white, faded hand as if to touch Sam, but she paused.

 _I am so sorry, boy,_ she said. Her voice echoed in his ears like a bell's ring.

The light of the spirits flickered and dimmed until it was almost pitch black again. The ghosts shrank away and hid in the shadow.

Something brushed Sam's shoulder. He tried to get away, clambering to his feet, but he tripped, landing on his back. He felt a weight press against him. He panted frantically, eyes darting around and seeing nothing.

He felt cold fingers touch his face and caress his hair. He closed his eyes.

 _Look at me_ , it said. Its voice was loud and quiet, close and far away, all at the same time. Sam clenched his eyes closed tighter.

_Look at me._

He felt those fingers on his face again, tugging at his eyelids until they were open. Sam saw it again, clearer than he could see it in Dean's bedroom, despite the pitch-black-nothing they were encased in.

It almost looked human. Almost. Its skin was pale and hairless, sagging on its long limbs like an over-sized coat. The bones stuck out sharply under the thin stretch of flesh, jutting along its spine. But the face…

The face was blank and pale. Its mouth was a gash, lips like festering scabs, showing too-sharp teeth under a too-stretched smile. Its nostrils were like slits which puffed as it lowered its head and sniffed at his skin. And the eyes. There were no eyes. The skin stretched over sockets, and in the dim glow of the ghosts Sam almost thought he could see through them.

 _Sweet boy. Little boy,_ it crooned. _What gift will you give me?_

Sam struggled, but it gripped tight and he felt sharp points dig into his skin. He forced down a yelp of pain.

 _A boy with clever words won't speak?_ It said, chuckling its amusement. _This boy speaks clever words, but now he won't speak at all. He only squeaks. You mustn't have use for your tongue anymore._

Then, Sam screamed as those long spindled fingers brushed down his face, traced over his chin. The creature laughed, cold and hard enough to chill his bones.

_This will only hurt a little._

_Dean, help me!_ Sam screamed. _Please help me! DEAN!_

The creature reached out its other hand and pressed it over his mouth, clamping it shut. The other hand stoked him, down to his neck. There was a moment of nothing where Sam panted and waited, then he felt the nails dig into his skin.

Sam felt a burning in his throat. He couldn't breathe under the scold of it. It hurt so much. There was a strain like a violin string being pulled, then he could _feel_ the _pluck_ of something snapping inside. His scream snapped in half along with it.

It was over quickly and the thing crawled away, leaving nothing but darkness and a pain so deep he couldn't move. When Sam opened his mouth to cry, he couldn't make a sound.


	5. Chapter Four

_Bobby Singer – 20_ _th_ _August 1996. Sioux Falls, South Dakota._

Bobby Singer wasn't the sort to have visitors, save for some folk coming by for scrap or hunters coming by for information. Honestly, he didn't want any. The comfort of his books, his liquor, and his dogs was good enough.

Rumsfeld was only a pup, dumb and energetic, too busy chewing up Bobby's furniture to listen to anything he said. And Marg was an old girl, she was getting on in her life. She moved slowly through the house, rickety old hips weighing her down. Still, she always mustered enough energy to scold Rumsfeld. At least that stupid puppy listened to someone.

The dogs noticed the sound of an engine before Bobby did, and the two of them started barking. Rumsfeld was whipping about madly, scratching at the door, whining to be let out. Bobby sighed and opened the door.

He only knew one car with an engine that sounded like that, and the owner of that car never called before turning up. John Winchester was a stubborn bastard. He and Bobby had had more than their fair share of fights. Did Bobby like John at all? He would if the man would switch his default setting from bad-tempered to reasonable.

Bobby cared. That was the important thing. He constantly worried about John being dumb enough to get himself shredded by something nasty out in the woods and leave his kids all alone. He was even more worried about him putting his kids on the front line, the youngest of the two being only thirteen years old.

A thirteen-year-old boy who'd been missing for two months, snatched out of bed in the middle of the night by God-knows-what.

If John Winchester was showing up at the Salvage yard, it meant one of two things. A) he wanted something, which was never a good thing, and B) he needed something, which was always a terrible thing. When Bobby saw Dean's pale, drawn face through the dashboard window, he began to understand that it must have been B).

The Winchesters had been in and out of Bobby's house for years, right up until Bobby chased John off his property with a shotgun to his back. Still, in the years that he and John were civil, his couch had been bled on by each Winchester. The worst time he remembered was when Sam got his chest slashed by a Black Dog when he was eleven years old. The whole time they stitched the boy up, John and Dean had been blank-faced as if they were playing poker. They were definitely terrified out of their minds, but they never showed it. They just kept quiet.

They looked horrified now and Bobby knew before he even saw that they'd found Sam. The look on Dean's face made Bobby wonder if they had found Sam in one piece.

He waited on the porch and watched John get out of the car and linger by its side, looking for once in his life like he didn't know what to do with himself. Dean was already out and ducking into the backseat. Bobby watched as Sam Winchester was pulled from where he'd been lying in the back of the car.

Dean held him upright and guided him towards the house. It wasn't until they got to the bottom of the porch steps that Bobby noticed the glazed look in Sam's eye.

"Let's get him onto the couch," was all Bobby said, although there was a lot more he'd have liked to say. He allowed Dean past, knowing it was best not to offer a hand. John followed in behind them, looking more tired than a corpse.

Bobby fetched blankets because poor Sam was shivering, even under the oversized sweater he was wearing. Dean helped the kid lie down on the couch and covered him in one of the quilts Bobby's Karen had made a lifetime ago.

He left the kids to it and gestured for John to follow him into the kitchen. He shut the door behind them.

"How'd you find him?" Bobby asked, since John wasn't making any move to explain things.

"He was just there," John said, voice gravelly like he'd smoked twenty cigarettes before he'd gotten to the salvage yard. Maybe he had. "The information you gave us was right. Sam was still at the house. He just came out the front door. I don't know what happened."

"Well, thank God he's alright," Bobby said. He didn't believe in God, and he certainly didn't believe that Sam was alright.

"He hasn't said a damn word, Bobby," John said. And, Jesus, he sounded so helpless. "It's been five days and he hasn't said a thing. He just sits there like he doesn't know where he is, or he fights us like he thinks we're hurting him. I don't even know if he knows we're here."

"The kid's had worse than a shock," Bobby pointed out. "None of us have any clue what happened. I know plenty hunters who crack on the job. Either something gets them or they can't take it anymore. And those are seasoned hunters, John. Sam's just a kid."

John glared at him. "Don't you start with that," he growled. "I don't need this crap from you, not right now."

Bobby thought, if not now, when?

He didn't say it. Instead, he said, "What do you need?"

"Somewhere to stay for a while. Sam needs somewhere to recover. He wasn't managing so well on the road so I thought…"

"A place he already knows might do him good," Bobby finished for him. He turned around and switched on the gas hob, placing a pot over the flame. "I'll fix up some supper. The kid looks like he could use some meat on him."

John grunted and Bobby thought maybe it was his way of saying _thank you_. When he turned back around, John was gone and the back door was swinging. He watched John disappear into the graveyard of junkers out back, shoulders drawn up tight as he marched, not looking back.

Bobby sighed and went about heating up soup. Back in the study, he found Sam and Dean in the same place he left them. Sam was lying under the quilt, vacant eyes open, staring at a point on the carpet and seeing nothing. Dean sat in a chair beside him, cracking his knuckles distractedly, worrying at his bottom lip, looking at nothing but his brother.

Dean looked up once Bobby was a few steps away and nodded to him, eyes catching sight of the bowl. Quickly, his attention was back to Sam.

"Hey, little brother," he said softly. "Bobby's got something to eat. Let's get you up, huh?"

He gently pulled Sam so that he was sitting upright. Sam folded into whatever position Dean put him in, malleable as putty. Then, Bobby managed to get a better look into Sam's eyes and the emptiness of them. There was no denying that the lights were on but nobody was home.

He let Dean take the bowl of soup from his hands, and swept his gaze over the rest of Sam. There was bruising on his wrists which stood out like smudges of coal against his paper-white skin. The boy was skinny, too. Too skinny to be healthy, that much was clear from the hollow cheeks and stick-thin arms. And the boy's hair, chunks were missing at the front, the scalp looked pink and sore like each strand had been forced out one-by-one.

"Open up, Sammy," Dean said softly, raising a spoonful of tomato soup and blowing gently on it. He eased it against Sam's lips until he opened up. Only half the spoonful made it into Sam's mouth, the rest of it dribbled down his chin.

Bobby watched Dean empty half the bowl until Sam's mouth refused to open anymore, then he watched Dean wipe the dribble from his little brother's chin, looking like he'd done it before a thousand times. And, Bobby thought, he probably had.

Bobby had been a hunter longer than most, and he'd certainly seen more than most, too. He'd seen hunters lose it. He'd seen experienced hunters who'd been slicing off heads for more than a decade take on that one particular hunt and come back from it with most of their screws loose. He'd seen hunters with eyes like Sam's, men who couldn't cope anymore and decided to just… leave.

He'd never seen one of those men come back, either.

That night, he mostly kept to the side-lines, keeping to himself and carrying on like he would. He was an observant man, and he knew when a person needed space. The Winchesters needed space.

Still, Bobby had plenty of things he'd like to have said to John Winchester, but he knew that none of his words would have made Sam any better, so Bobby kept his mouth shut. For now, at least.

No thirteen-year-old boy should have been using weapons or running into burning buildings or seeing the sort of things the Winchester boys saw. And Bobby always kept an eye on his surroundings, he watched people's faces. The last time he'd seen Sam was about a couple of years ago, and even then, Bobby could see how much the boy had hated the life they lived.

It was a damn shame he couldn't escape it.

"Bobby?" he was brought back into the room by Dean's hesitant voice. If that kid was anything, it wasn't hesitant. Dean looked almost as pale as his brother did, tired and worn down enough that it seemed to weigh on his back. He didn't look like that strapping, confident, cunning kid Bobby knew. He looked up at Bobby with an expression that reminded him just how young Dean was. Bobby nodded to show he was listening.

"Sammy's getting tired," Dean said. He had one hand on Sam's shoulder, the younger boy was swaying slighting underneath his grip, eyes drooping.

"We can put him upstairs," Bobby said. He moved forward to help pick Sam up but Dean was already hauling him up into his arms. Bobby didn't say a word, just headed upstairs first to change the dusty sheets on the spare bed. And he waited in the hall while Dean changed Sam into sleep clothes, just because he had to make sure those boys had someone.

He left them up there. Sam's eyes were closed by the time Dean had laid him down, and even though Dean looked dead on his feet Bobby was sure he wasn't going to sleep any time soon. When he got back downstairs, John had made a reappearance, sitting at the desk and drinking some of Bobby's best whiskey.

"I fucked up," was all he said. Bobby couldn't disagree with that so he didn't say anything. John sighed and went on, "I've destroyed him. I ruined my son."

Bobby had to speak up then. "Sam's still alive. He might have left the building but that don't mean he isn't coming back."

"How do you know?" John asked hopelessly.

"Because I know Sam," Bobby said. "And he's a strong kid. Stronger and smarter than any brat I've ever met. Both of your boys are."

"I need help," John admitted, and it was clear it took a lot for him to say those words.

"Here's what you're gonna do," Bobby said. "You're going to sober up, then you're going to go look after those boys of yours."

"I don't know what to do," John sighed heavily.

"That's a first," Bobby remarked. His face softened and he sat down. "This has happened. There's no changing what's been done. What you can do now is look after those boys. Don't think about revenger or hunting. You need to think about Sam."

John nodded, eyes down.

"You can stay as long as you like," Bobby offered. "Anything you need, just ask."

"Thanks, Bobby," John muttered. There was a small stretch of silence, Bobby was still a little surprised by what he was hearing. He'd never heard words like that from John Winchester.

He cleared his throat. "Don't mention it."

Within a week, John packed up his car and took the boys away. Bobby wouldn't see them for another four years.

* * *

_Dean – 20_ _th_ _June 2000, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

He slows the Impala down on the way up the driveway. Sam hunches in on himself as if he can squash all six foot two of himself under his seat. He notices that Sam's hands are clasped in front of him and it takes a moment for Dean to realise that Sam is praying.

Dean worries at his bottom lip, thinking back, and yep, he's pretty sure that his brother wasn't a goddamn Christian before he lived with Pastor Jim. Already, Dean is thinking of places he can shove the guy's religious indoctrination.

However, Sam is doing a hell of a lot better than expected, given that he's now only a few feet from the place that broke him, and maybe prayer has something to do with it. Maybe there's a little power in faith. Or maybe it's all crap and it's a good thing Sam believes in it.

He's too busy keeping an eye on his brother that he doesn't notice Bobby Singer's truck until he's parked right next to it. Behind it, John's truck sits abandoned and covered in a layer of road dust.

"I'll be damned," Dean mutters, and Sam finally raises his head for the first time in five miles.

Bobby hops out of his truck and waits by the porch steps. Dean meets him there, not too surprised that Sam chooses to remain where he is.

"Jim called and told me what you idjits were up to," Bobby explains. "Thought the two of you could use an extra pair of hands."

Dean grins. "It's real good to see you, Bobby," he says. "I mean it. It's been way too long."

Bobby raises his eyebrow. "And you couldn't pick up the phone and call these past four years?"

"Uh, sorry. I've been busy," Dean says lamely, scratching at the back of his neck. He turns and looks up to the old house, right up to the round window in the attic. He remembers going up there to pack Sam's things before they left. Before they left Sam alone in the house. Before they left Sam.

It's as hot as that summer was four years ago, and Dean shrugs off his leather jacket just as Bobby adjusts the cap on his head, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. Sam only seems to huddle further down in his seat, further down into his sweater and jacket. His shoulders are more tense than usual and Dean thinks stupidly for a second that Sam's just uncomfortable in the heat, until he realises that's not the case and Sam's actually turning a little green, eye's wide and panicking.

"Shit," Dean curses and hurries over to the passenger side. He hears the gravel crunch under Bobby's boots behind him. Dean yanks the car door open and crouches by Sam's side. Sam isn't looking at Dean or Bobby, he's looking up at the house with a look on his face like he thinks it's going to suddenly grow a mouth and swallow him up.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asks.

"It's okay. He's just a little… overwhelmed," Dean says. He grabs Sam's attention by gripping his shoulders as gently as he can. Sam tears his eyes away from the house and looks at Dean.

"I'm not letting anything happen to you, okay?" Dean says clearly. "You hearing me? I've got you. I'm gonna keep you safe, so will Bobby."

For a second, Sam doesn't say anything. His whole body lurches a little and Dean just about manages to jump back and avoid having puke down his front. Sam chokes and gags, vomiting onto the dusty driveway, just about managing to miss Dean's shoes.

After a few minutes, Sam glances up and stares at Bobby like he's only just noticed he's there. He nods a little and leans forward so the tip of his nose is almost touching his thighs, still trying to get his breathing steady. Dean leans over and rubs Sam's back.

Bobby has been quiet through the whole thing and Dean can feel his eyes on the both of them, especially on Sam. Last time Bobby saw Sam the kid was a catatonic thirteen-year-old. Now, Sam is taller than Dean and he's skinny as a rake and he never utters a word. Either way, he's nothing like the Sam Bobby ever knew; that chatty, annoying-as-hell, genius kid that Dean misses like crazy.

"It's good to see you, Sam," Bobby says once the kid's vertical again. Sam smiles up at him, a little forced and shaky, and he uses Dean's shoulder to pull himself to his feet. Dean watches in amusement as Bobby's gaze follows Sam up and up. "You got tall, kid," he says, and Sam ducks his head shyly so he's on level with everyone else.

"Since we're all caught up," Dean says, "we should get to work. If you're good to go, Sammy."

He says that last part like a question. Sam nods, looking as uncertain as a person possibly can, brow creased worryingly. Dean takes a hold of Sam's shoulder. He knows that Sam doesn't usually like too much physical contact, but right now it seems to be keeping him steady. He finds himself slipping easily into that big brother role when he actually spends a decent amount of time with Sam, and after fifteen hours on the road together, things are starting to feel like they used to.

It makes it easy to forget that Sam doesn't speak.

"Sam," Dean says softly. Sam turns to look at him, a lock of white hair tipping forward over his eyes. "Sam, where should we start?"

Dean has no clue what the thing in the house is. He has no idea what took Sam four years ago. He doesn't know what it looks like, what its strengths are, what its weaknesses are, what it feeds on (although he has a good guess). He doesn't know a goddamn thing about this monster except that Sam refers to it as _she_.

Dean's expecting to ask a lot of questions, he's expecting Sam to be as vague as he was when they talked about it in Blue Earth, but Sam just raises his arm and points into the distance. Dean and Bobby turn to see a little white cottage on the other side of the field.

Dean looks back to Sam, confused. "We have to go there?"

Sam nods once. Dean doesn't need to be told twice. Sam could have told him that the answers were down a sewer and he would have gone trudging through slime and filth to get them. The three of them trek across the field. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back the whole way there, partly because he doesn't want Sam to be afraid, partly because Dean's terrified that Sam will vanish into thin air like he did four years ago.

Halfway there, Dean spots a big pond with a tire swing hanging over the waters. He points it out and smiles.

"Look, Sam! Remember that summer in Texas? The werewolf hunt in San Antonio? We were there for two whole months and we used to go down to that lake and I built a swing out of an old tire and some rope. Man, that was pretty awesome."

Sam smiles a little, but the silence that follows makes Dean's face fall. He wonders if Sam wishes he could speak right now. He wonders if Sam will ever speak again.

Bobby watches the two of them out of the corner of his eye, face drawn. They walk the rest of the way without another word.

There's an old woman in the front garden when they make it up to the house. She's watering her plants and looks up at them curiously.

"Can I help you fellas?" she asks, setting her watering can on a bench nearby.

Dean steps up to the gate. "We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about – "

He stops talking once he realises the woman isn't looking at him anymore, her eyes are trained over his shoulder. She's staring at Sam like she's staring at a ghost.

"My God," she whispers. She clears her throat gestures them to come into the garden. Sam moves more awkwardly than usual, head ducked. The old woman steps forward and reaches out a dark-skinned hand. Sam jolts and her hand draws back to her side. "How is it possible? I thought for sure the thing got you, you poor boy."

"Wait," Dean cuts in. " _The thing?_ Do you know what it is?"

She turns back to Dean and grimaces. "It's a demon is what it is," she says. "I ain't never seen it proper but I know it's there. That thing took my sister about seventy years ago."

"Demon?" Dean repeats, glancing over to Bobby. "Did you see any black eyes? Ever smell something like sulphur?"

The woman looks at him like he's crazy. "What are you talking about? I saw no black eyes. I didn't see much more than its shape in the shadows. And sulphur? No. I didn't smell anything like that." She turns back to Sam. "How on God's good earth did you get away? No child has ever come back."

Sam doesn't answer her, of course, and she frowns and turns to Dean and Bobby.

"Sam doesn't speak. He hasn't ever since… you know," Dean explains.

She looks at Sam sadly. "Be thankful that's the only thing you lost."

"Miss…" Dean begins.

"Annette," she supplies.

"Miss Annette," Dean says, "Please can you tell us everything you know about whatever's in that house."

She glances down the hill to the house in question and her jaw tightens. She nods stiffly and turns towards her front door, gesturing for them to follow.

She guides them to a sitting room and the four of them squeeze onto her dainty sofa and armchairs. She disappears for a moment and returns with a photo album which she places on the coffee table. She opens it to show a black and white picture of two little girls, beaming at the camera. They're standing on a porch and holding hands, one is smaller than the other but they have matching dresses and cornrowed braids.

Annette points to the smaller girl. "That there is Anita, my little sister. We used to live in that house down the hill. She went missing not long after we moved in. She was seven years old. One night she just vanished. And that was it, we never saw her again."

She sighs, fingers lingering on the photo. "We moved out a couple or so months after. The police closed the case. I think they'd 'a still been looking if she'd been a white girl, but they gave up pretty quick. My mama didn't want to be anywhere near that house so we moved out of the countryside and into the next town."

Dean watches her turn the page of the album to reveal numerous newspaper clippings.

"As I got older I started to get more curious about what happened," Annette went on. "When I was eighteen I started investigating the house. I only found a couple of disappearances and one death since the house was built."

She pointed to three separate articles. One title stands out to Dean. _Young girl perishes in tragic fall_. Dean picks it up and shows it to Sam.

"This is the ghost girl that attacked you, right?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head.

"It's not her?" Dean says, surprised. "So Dad just burned some random girl's bones for no reason?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder. Dean puts the clipping back and looks at the other two. Both are pretty much the same as one another; children vanished in the middle of the night in that house. The kids aren't related and the incidents happened decades apart.

"This thing has been there as long as a century," Bobby points out, "but it only ever took four children; the two in these articles, your sister, and Sam?"

Sam shakes his head frantically and holds up all of his fingers for a moment, then he tucks three away. His hands tremble and his eyes are narrowed, focused, like he's trying hard to keep them steady.

"Seventeen?" Dean clarifies. Sam nods. Dean blows out a breath. "It's taken seventeen kids? How do you know?"

Sam points to his eyes.

"You saw them?" Bobby asks. Sam nods.

"They're still alive?" Annette questions hopefully. Sam's eyes droop sadly as he shakes his head. Annette nods solemnly as if she'd never had her hopes up to begin with.

Dean pauses, frowns. "This is the hunt," he realises. Everyone looks up. "The hunt we came for in '96. Kids had been going missing all around the area but we never figured the house was involved."

"That house was worth a good bit," Annette says. "They used to keep the disappearances buried deep, hoping someone would buy the house. But no one wanted it." She grins devilishly. "I may have had a hand in chasin' away buyers."

Sam smiles, staring down at his lap.

Annette sighs. "I had no idea you were movin' in until I saw your car parked out there one mornin'. Then I met Sam here and I… I tried my best to warn him but I think I only managed to chase him away, right back to that house."

Bobby clears his throat. "If this thing only takes children, then how can we be sure it has your daddy?"

"It wants Sam back," Dean says. Sam's head is ducked far enough that his face is completely obscured by his hair. "Sam told me this thing doesn't like losing. And Sam's seventeen, he's technically still a child, right?"

"It must be smart," Bobby hazards. "If it knows to take John to get to Sam."

"You said hunt, earlier," Annette cuts in. "I'm guessin' you don't mean deer and turkey."

"Only things that go bump in the night," Dean says. "It's the family business. Ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, whatever you can think of, my family hunts it. We were here on a case in '96. Children had been going missing in town over the past century, and maybe we would have found the link to the house if we'd finished the case."

"I'm no professional monster hunter," Annette says, "But I've been collecting this information for decades and this is all I've come up with."

"But my dad, he can figure anything out," Dean protests. "How did he miss all of this?"

"I think he finally figured it out after all this time, that's why he went back to the house," Bobby says. He pauses, then asks, "How many kids had gone missing in your case?"

"Fourteen, as far as we found. We weren't on the case long."

"And the three from Annette's research adds up to the seventeen Sam says he saw," Bobby points out.

"It's leaving the house?" Dean wonders. "How can seventeen kids disappear in the same town and no one finds it odd?"

Annette shrugs. "It's a small town," she says. "Small towns don't get much attention in the media, and media wasn't like it is today. These disappearances happened over more than a century," she flips the album to the next page where there are older clippings, "I tracked them down to almost a hundred and seventy years ago. This means kids go vanishin' every ten years. There'd be different police investigatin' each one. Why would these police think the missin' children are connected when they happen a decade apart in different parts of town?"

Dean pulls a pad and a pen from inside his jacket and scribbles some notes.

' _She'_

_Only takes kids_

_Every ten years_

_Kids missing all over town_

_As old as 170_

He pauses before adding something else. _Where does it take the kids and how does it get around town unseen?_

He looks up to Sam, tears off the page he wrote on, and hands the paper and pen over. "Sammy, tell us whatever you can."

Sam takes it, hands shaking, and he settles the pad on his lap. It takes a moment for him to position the pen in his hand and when he places the nib to the paper it shakes and scrawls ink. He bites his lip and focuses, dragging the pen across, pressing hard. It takes a while but when he's done he hands it back to Dean, looking paler than he did a moment ago. Dean looks down to the paper.

_She lives in the Dark. She likes to play games. She keeps trophies. She hates the light. She has no eyes. She can sniff you out from a mile away. She's tall. She's hungry but she eats slow._

Under Dean's question, Sam has scribbled an answer.

_Shadows._

* * *

_Sam – Unknown, In the Dark_

She'd always win games. It was Her domain.

 _You hide, I seek,_ She said. Sam felt Her long fingers in his hair, then _pluck pluck pluck_ as She pulled three strands. He could barely see Her, but in the glow of the ghost light he saw Her sprinkle the hair over Her gaping wide mouth and swallow.

 _Sweet and salty boy, you hide and I'll seek you,_ She said. Sam crawled away into the never-ending dark.

The ground was wet beneath his hands and knees, cold and tacky, and for once he was glad he couldn't see. A soft light glowed beside him and he turned to see the ghost girl.

 _She'll sniff you out,_ she said. _She always wins Her games. You'll never get far. Even now that I'm gone, I can only reach the house, no further. I always come back to the Dark no matter how hard I try to leave._

Sam wished he could say something but his voice was gone. Whatever She was, She took his vocal chords, severed them from his body and ate them right in front of him. He brought a hand up to his throat and felt the smooth skin there. No gash, no blood. She didn't like mess.

He crawled faster, a part of him deep down chose to believe that if he crawled far enough he might see a point of light that would lead home. To Dad. To Dean. Something caught under him and Sam stumbled. The ground was lumpy, sharp in some places, soft in others.

The ghost brought her light closer and illuminated the ground.

Shoes. More than a dozen pairs of shoes piled neatly. Smaller shoes, bigger shoes. Children's slippers.

 _She doesn't like to waste a thing,_ the ghost girl whispered sadly. _She keeps all that's left of us so we can never leave._

In the soft glow of her light, he could see more. Nightdresses and sleep shirts left in a heap. At the top of the mound was a set of striped pyjamas, small enough that only a five-year-old might fit them.

Sam might have screamed if he'd still had a voice. He scrambled away from it all and hurried away into another part of the Dark.

It was so cold. He was so cold. So hungry. So tired.

He stopped when he heard the sharp huff of Her sniffing the air. _Clever boy, ready or not,_ She called into the Dark.

 _Hurry, boy!_ Ghost girl hissed.

Sam crawled faster, knees and palms banging against the floor, aching. He couldn't see a thing, couldn't hear a thing, and for all he knew he was going in circles. He turned and ghost girl was gone, he could see the flicker of the others like a pinprick in the distance.

Something shuffled nearby and Sam stopped, holding his breath. _Sniff sniff sniff_. Getting closer. Sam couldn't move, his arms shook under his weight and he carefully pressed himself down flat, hands going over his head, waiting for the inevitable.

He felt Her before he heard Her. The black, heavy weight of her crawling above in the dark, sniffing the air. Then he felt the thick warmth of Her saliva drip and tickle his neck.

She stroked a long, pointed finger along his spine and tutted.

 _Not a good hider_ , She said disapprovingly. _You need to get better if the game's to be fun_. _What do you say, boy?_

 _Yes, Ma'am._ Sam jolted at the sound of his own voice. He hadn't so much as breathed, he couldn't speak. His voice came from above, it came from Her mouthing mouth. She had _his_ voice.

 _Come on, boy_ , She said, using her high-low voice again. _You must eat if you're to be strong enough to play._

Something thick and wet hit the ground beside him, squelching on impact. She pressed it close to his face and he almost gagged at the stench of raw meat.

 _Eat!_ She yelled in his ear.

She gripped his hair tight and tilted his head up, piercing her nails into the back of his neck until he closed his fingers around the warm flesh.

He brought it to his mouth and forced himself to tear a chunk away. It was tough and he gnawed at it until there was a bite-sized piece on his tongue. He chewed, eyes squeezed tight, holding his breath, trying not to gag as he swallowed.


	6. Chapter Five

_Sam – Unknown, In the dark_

It hurt. The way his stomach clenched and squirmed, trembling with hunger. He knew nothing but the Dark, the memory of blue skies and sunshine were slipping away. Sometimes, he'd wake up and spend a minute trying to remember his own name.

 _My name is Sam. My brother is called Dean. My dad is called John. My mother was called Mary. My family are hunters. They_ will _find me. I am still_ alive.

He repeated this mantra in his head whenever he was awake. But wakefulness and sleep were difficult to tell apart when he never saw anything but vast blackness. He didn't know when he was dreaming anymore, and the mantra was losing pieces and falling apart each time he tried to remind himself of it.

 _Little boy, I think you're turning quite mad,_ She crooned _. Never mind. Your meat is young and fresh. Younger is better, I always say, keeps me healthy._

She was away more often than not, and Sam curled up in the cold darkness and hoped he might die before She came back. When She was there, She liked to play more games. Then She'd pluck away his hairs to eat, forcing Sam to eat whatever She'd brought him. He didn't find raw meat revolting when he was starving enough.

 _When I finish your hair, I'll start on your skin,_ She'd said once, licking a tuft of brown curls. The patch of scalp where the hairs had been rooted was now raw and painful. _Or maybe I'll take your eyes first. You don't need them here, after all._

She said these things whenever She was around, She seemed to enjoy telling him which parts She'd eat next. The ghosts told him he was lucky that She started with his hair and not another piece of him. A part of Sam found himself waiting for Her; he was half-delirious with hunger and barely felt Her pull out his hair, too busy tearing into the chunk of meat She brought for him.

The meat always made him throw up after, and it was tough and fatty between his teeth, taking so long to chew through a small mouthful. But there was nothing else and Sam was _hungry_. She gave him water, too. He couldn't see it in the Dark, but the taste of it made him sure it was clouded and muddy. He gulped it down fast enough to make himself choke.

When She wasn't there, Sam slept. Or he'd lie down and feel at his face to make sure his eyes were still there. Sometimes, the ghosts would talk to him, but Sam could never talk back and they'd drift away into the dark, leaving behind a chill on his skin.

 _Aren't you gonna try, mister?_ One of the spirits asked. He looked much younger than Sam, maybe around five or six years old, and he was dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt that reached his knees. Sam wished he could ask the boy his name, who his parents were, when he had died…

 _Mister?_ The ghost said again. Sam just shook his head. The ghost flickered a little, sadly. _If you don't try, you'll never leave._

Sam couldn't try even if he wanted to. He'd crawled around in the Dark until his knees bled, and She had still found him. She would always find him.

* * *

 _Dean – 20_ _th_ _June 2000, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

It's a goddamn stupid plan. It's the worst plan in the history of plans. No way is this happening…

But it is happening, because it's the only plan they have and they're running out of time.

Sam was the one who came up with it. That stupid, genius kid.

Annette's collection of research is heavy and leather-bound, sitting in the back seat of the Impala like it's a passenger. Sun-down would be in a few hours and Dean and Bobby only have so long to formulate a plan. Sam couldn't offer much; he wouldn't write anything more than what he'd given Dean at Annette's house. It seems like he's shut himself off again, sitting hunched, head-down in the passenger side.

The town isn't much but there it's all they have. Bobby has driven over to the next town to see if he can find more of what they need.

It's just Dean and Sammy.

Dean pulls up right next to an electrical store. It seems a little out-dated, along with most of the rest of the town, but they're running out of time and they can't afford to wait another day. They need to get Dad back. Dean grips the steering wheel tightly, eyes clenched closed. Breathe… 1… 2… 3…

He can do this. He has to do this.

He glances to his right where Sam seems to have buried himself even further into his seat. Dean wants to reach out, place a hand on Sam's back, be as comforting as he can be. His hand pauses mid-way and he quickly pulls it back. Sam is shaking, not just in his hands but all over.

"Sammy," Dean says it as softly as he can, but Sam still flinches. It takes a moment, but Sam looks up at him, head still bent so far forward that it must be uncomfortable.

"Sammy," Dean says again, "Do you want to come in to the store, or do you want to stay in the car?"

Sam glances up over Dean's shoulder, eyeing the electrical store warily. Dean watches his unsteady hands find their way into his coat pocket and pull something out. Dean can't see what it is, but Sam holds onto it like a length of rope keeping him from falling.

"I'll be real quick, okay?" Dean finally says, because Sam is looking down again, fiddling with the woven bracelet Dean gave to him for his birthday, and not making any indication that he's going to move from where he is.

Dean sighs and climbs out of the car. He locks it, just in case, and heads into the store. The old guy behind the till is busy with a heaped mess of wires and bulbs, so Dean wanders around the store until he finds what he needs.

There are only five UV lightbulbs and none of them are big enough. He piles all of them into his arms and heads over to the checkout. The shopkeeper looks up, eyes gliding up and down what Dean has in his arms. The guy shrugs, then sweeps aside everything in front of him, not seeming to notice or care when a couple of the wires slip over the edge of the table.

"That'll be fifty dollars in all," he says, tapping his finger on the desk. Dean sighs and places the boxes down so he can fish out his wallet. He hands over the cash, all of which he hustled of some Jackass in Illinois a while ago, and the old guy counts it twice.

"Is there anywhere I can get more of these?" Dean asks.

The shopkeeper shrugs again. "Not in this town," he answers rather unhelpfully.

Dean sighs and collects the boxes. He nods his thanks and leaves, not wanting to leave Sam on his own for too long. Sam doesn't seem like he's moved an inch from where Dean left him, and Dean isn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Still, he dumps the lights onto the back seat next to Annette's book of research and hops behind the wheel.

"We'll grab some food, okay?" Dean suggests, but it's more of a statement than a question since he knows he won't get any kind of answer from Sam.

Sam doesn't even look up.

Dean starts the car, and he's about to pull onto the road when he notices what Sam has in his hands.

Sam's eyes are closed and his mouth is moving silently, moving too fast for Dean to even try to figure out what Sam might be saying, or not saying. And in Sam's hands is something small and gold.

Jesus Christ spread out on a crucifix, trembling in Sam's hands.

* * *

 _Dean – 18_ _th_ _July 1997. On the road._

Dean was under a Chevy when the call came. It had been ten months since Sam's lights had flicked back on. Dean had been so tired of looking into those vacant eyes, so tired of easing food into Sam's mouth, and then one day Sam had looked _at_ him. And Dean had been so overjoyed that it took him longer than it should have to realise that Sam wasn't talking.

But Sam was better now, that's what their dad had said. John Winchester never could sit still for too long, not that he was around much even when Sam was zombied out. Sam being better meant they could all get back to hunting. Not that Sam had been on many hunts since…

John was clearly getting frustrated with Sammy's no-talking deal, and even more frustrated at the fact that Sam wasn't going to tell them what took him in the first place.

Sam was okay. Dean told himself that. Sam was still in one piece; the scratches on his skin had healed long ago, and the plucked hair at the front of his scalp was coming back through. It was white, but Dean thought it looked kind of cool, kind of like Rogue from the X-men.

Sam didn't seem all that bothered, he hadn't even complained when Dean chopped all of his hair down to one length. Sam was fine. He was. He was getting better. So what if he didn't talk?

But then Dean's boss, Jerry, called him into the office in the garage.

"It's the local high school," Jerry said, holding out the phone. "You got a brother there, right?"

Dean nodded mutely and took the receiver. Sam had been back in school for a couple of months, in fact, this was the second school he'd been to since he'd come back from… wherever he went last summer.

The thing is, Sam's a good kid, the school doesn't ring home about Sam, that's not how it is.

The last school said they thought Sam ought to speak to a psychiatrist, but what the hell did they know? They were just a bunch of quacks with nothing better to do than pick on some kid for being quiet. John and Dean had pulled Sam out and moved on before the end of the week.

Dean sighed and brought the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

" _Am I speaking to Mr Winchester?"_ a woman's voice asked.

"Um. That's my dad," Dean said. "Is this about Sammy?"

" _Could you give me your father's number, please?"_

"He's away right now. You can talk to me," Dean told her squarely.

She sighed, clearly not pleased. _"There's no way of contacting your father?"_

"Look, I'm legally an adult. If something's wrong with Sam, you can tell me about it."

There was a moment's pause. _"Alright. I need you to come down to the school to collect Sam."_

Dean frowned. "Why? What's happened?"

" _There was a fight, but I'd really rather speak to you about it in person."_

Dean clenched his hand out the receiver and huffed out a breath. "Alright," he relented, "I'm coming now."

He hung up without another word and turned to his boss.

"It's okay, Dean," Jerry said, waving a hand dismissively. "Do what you gotta do."

Dean gave a short nod and hurried out the door, climbing into the Impala still dressed in his overalls. The town was a small one and it only took him ten minutes to get to the high school, he could have made it there on foot if he wasn't in such a hurry. The school itself was as small as the town it was in, with only one floor and about one hundred students. Sam had been there for almost two weeks and there hadn't been any problems before.

Although, it had been a nightmare trying to explain to the teachers that Sam was effectively a mute.

They seemed to be waiting for him because the receptionist pointed him in the right direction before he even had a chance to open his mouth. He walked past the nurse's office where some kid was crying and groaning in pain.

Dean wasn't there for that kid. Whatever.

He found Sam sitting outside the principal's office, knees tucked up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

"What happened?" Dean asked, crouching down to get a better look. Sam flinched away from his prying hands but Dean managed the hold him still. His upper lip and the side of his mouth were tinged orange where blood had been cleaned away.

"Aw, fuck. Sam?" Dean said, rubbing a thumb over Sam's cheek, trying to get him to look at him. Sam's eyes were set hard on the floor, his jaw was clenched tight, his hands trembled where they clutched onto his knees.

"Mr Winchester?" A woman appeared in the doorway of the principal's office and Dean knew right away that she was the woman he'd spoken to on the phone.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean said, standing up. "What the hell happened?"

She motioned inside the office. "Come in, please."

Dean felt reluctant to leave Sam on his own. The kid looked seriously spooked, pale white and shaking hard. Dean patted him gently on the shoulder, Sam jerked. Dean sighed and followed the principal. He dropped down into one of the two seats in front of the desk.

"I'm Mrs Jones-Whitely," the principal said, taking her seat.

"Why the hell is Sam just sitting out there alone when he's been hurt?" Dean demanded. "Where's the nurse?"

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "The school nurse is busy with the other boy involved in the fight. The ambulance is on its way as we speak."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Ambulance? No way Sammy hurt someone that bad. He's – he's _fragile_. A stiff wind would knock him over."

"I don't know what caused the fight," Mrs Jones-Whitely said, "but Sam bit one of our students so hard on the arm that stitches are required."

Dean shrugged. "The kid probably had it coming."

The principal raised her eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe the other student did say something offensive, but violence is never the answer. If Sam had trouble, he should have informed a teacher."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, because Sam's so chatty."

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "I understand that Sam has… difficulties, but I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour."

"I get it. It won't happen again," Dean agreed.

"I'm not sure you understand," the principal said. "Mr Winchester, your father has informed me that Sam has been to see a psychiatrist in the past, correct?"

Dean nodded, lying through his teeth. Already, he could feel the ground vanishing beneath him. He knew where this was going.

"Well, I'd suggest you seek psychiatric help for your brother again. Sam is a rather disturbed individual."

That was enough. Dean snapped. "Look, lady," he hissed, knocking his chair as he stood up. "I know Sam is different, alright? You have no idea what he's been through so don't get all high and mighty on me about what's in Sam's interest. Sam is _fine_ , got it? He's just… adjusting."

If the principal was surprised by his outburst, she didn't show it. She simply folded her hands neatly on the desk and peered up at him over her glasses.

"Sam needs help," she said. Her voice didn't hold the abrupt, authoritative tone it did before. It was gentle, her eyes clouded with sympathy. "His behaviour is not that of a normal fourteen-year-old boy. I can understand finding it hard to talk, being shy, I can understand the anxiety, but… he doesn't look anyone in the eye, and if he does it always seems threatening. When I found him today, biting into that boy's arm, there was blood everywhere, all over Sam's mouth. And when I told him to stop, he let go and barred his teeth at me like a wild animal."

Dean shook his head. "No, that's not Sam. Sam isn't like that. He's just… hurt by what happened to him."

"Be honest with me, is Sam like this at home?"

Dean was about to protest, _no_ already sitting on his tongue. But then he thought of the times where Sam would scratch and hit if Dean or John tried to get close, the way he threw food across the room if he decided he didn't want it, the fact that the first thing he did when they arrived at a new motel was try to pull the curtains down.

Dean could have told the principal all of this. Instead, he said, "Sam is _fine_."

There hadn't been much to do or say after that. Dean was allowed to take Sam home; his brother wasn't allowed back at school for the last week before the summer holidays since he was temporarily suspended. Back at the motel, Sam just sat on the bed and stared at the carpet. Dean turned on the TV just because he couldn't stand the silence.

He made them ramen noodles out of a packet that night, which Sam inspected for a solid ten minutes before he was assured it was meat-free. They ate in silence because Sam didn't like talking and didn't seem to be planning on starting anytime soon.

Still, Dean needed to know.

"Sammy," he said. The slight flinch in Sam's shoulders was the only indication he'd heard. "That kid, the one you got into a fight with, did he - did he say something to you?"

Sam finally glanced up. He just stared at Dean dully, chewing slowly.

"Did he say something to upset you?" Dean clarified. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to understand, alright?"

Sam blinked and Dean wondered if it meant anything.

"He did?" Dean ventured. "What did he say?"

Sam looked away again, glancing down at the table top. Dean sighed hopelessly and watched as Sam placed his fork down, then reach up a hand to his hair.

"He said something about it?" Dean guessed. Sam fingered the patchy white strands between his fingers. Then, Sam yanked, pulling a tuft from his scalp hard enough to make his eyes water. Dean was up and out of his seat, leaning across the table to grab a hold of Sam's arms.

Sam wasn't so keen on being pinned down and he wriggled under Dean, managing to slip out of the seat and across the carpet. He was heading for the bathroom, the room with a door that could _lock_. Nope. Not happening. Dean lunged after Sam, landing as gently as he could over his brother's body and pinning him down.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean grunted, his little brother kicking and struggling beneath him. Sam leaned over, mouth open, teeth bared, aiming for Dean's arm. Dean knew the damage the kid could do with his teeth now; he wasn't planning on getting stitches any time soon. Out of reflex, he jolted back, accidentally giving Sam the room he needed to make a run for it.

Sam didn't go for the bathroom, he made a turn right back to the kitchen table. By the time Dean was on his feet again, Sam was across the room, his fork in hand, the prongs pressing into the soft skin under his chin.

Dean's hands went up, trembling like Sam's. "Sam, drop it!" he snapped. Sam stared at him then, truly looked at him, eyes watering, mouth trembling. Dean shuffled forward a step, voice softening, "Please, Sammy."

Sam's face dropped, eyes scrunching closed. Slowly, he pulled the fork away from his skin, then he threw it hard enough to the ground to bend the head. Perhaps the most surprising thing to happen was Sam throwing himself into Dean's arms, holding on for dear life, crying wetly into Dean's shirt.

Sam had barely let anyone touch him for months. Dean slowly bent down until he could pull Sam's head gently onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him and pressed his nose to the top of his head.

The two of them jolted when Dean's phone rang in his back pocket. Carefully, he freed one hand to fish it out. He answered.

" _Dean, get Sam packed and ready. We're moving out tonight, I'm on my way back now,"_ came John Winchester's voice.

Dean breathed out deeply. "Um, dad. I'm not sure if… Sam's not doing so well."

" _We're going to take him up to Jim's, okay?"_ John said. _"He'll be safe there, I promise."_

"Dad," Dean cleared his throat, "I really don't think – "

" _I'll be back in a couple hours."_

The line broke off and Dean felt his heart plummet to the centre of the earth.

He hadn't gotten all of Sam back, he knew that. Part of Sam was lost when he vanished in Georgia. It was like living with a ghost. A ghost intent on destroying itself. Dean had been looking after Sam his whole life and he never once complained, now he felt like he was drowning and his father was barely around enough to help keep his head above water.

Dean couldn't do this alone.

He glanced down, the hairs on top of Sam's head kissed his lips. He felt his brother shake and sob soundlessly in his arms. Dean dropped the phone and curled his arms tighter around Sam's body, rocking him gently, whispering words that weren't enough.

He felt his brother's warm body in his arms and wondered where he'd been all this time. Even now, Sam was lost.

Where did Sam go?

* * *

_Sam – Unknown. The Dark._

_Wait for Her to leave,_ the ghost girl said, _and follow Her through the door. The door only opens for Her. You need Her to escape. You're still alive, boy. She can't keep you here like she keeps us._

He wished he could tell her it was hopeless. He would never leave. He knew how this story ended.

 _We can try to distract Her,_ another spirit said, _and you run!_

In the dark, Sam lost track and the spirit's voices faded away. Even in his dreams, it was dark.

He was shaken awake by ice cold fingers, touching him, pulling him.

_Wake up, boy! She's coming back!_

Let Her come, Sam thought.

 _The door will open,_ ghost girl said. _You'll only have a moment to get away._

Sam was too stiff with chills, trembling in the Dark, limbs frozen solid. He'd never make it.

_Run!_

Something in him came alive. Sam was on his feet, stumbling, losing his balance in the darkness. Looking down, he couldn't even see his own hands, but he could feel them shaking.

Sam began to run.

He tripped, not being able to see if he put one foot in front of the other, but each time he got back up and kept going. He didn't know where he was supposed to go, he couldn't see where he was going.

_This way!_

A light flickered in the corner of his eye and he skidded, turning in its direction. The ghost girl was there, hanging in the hair, waiting for him. She reached out a white, faded hand and Sam took it. The feel of her was like ice on his skin, burning him. He let her pull him along.

 _Boy! Sweet and salty boy!_ It was Her. She was coming.

 _Run, boy!_ Ghost girl cried.

He ran faster. He heard Her behind him, sniffing, clawing. The sound of Her grew louder.

 _You will not leave me!_ She cried.

Sam felt Her swipe at him, he felt the rush of air of Her claws near his back.

And then he saw it.

Light.

Barely a pinprick. The door, the way out. It was closing. He ran for it.

All he remembered was running, running, running. Then something pushed him, icy hands on his back, and he was tumbling from the dark, crashing to his knees onto a hardwood floor.

The room was dark and empty.

Dean's room.

He glanced around. The room was _empty_ ; Dean's things were gone. His family was _gone._ The moon lingered outside, offering its glow through the window, the first real light he'd seen in… how long was he gone?

He scrunched his eyes shut, shying away as the moonlight stung him.

Sam scrambled away from the shadows in the corner, barely managing to scrape himself from the floor to make it down the stairs. Each _clunk_ of his heavy bare feet against the wooden steps sent vibrations from his toes to the tip of his head, dizzying him.

The front door was closed. It seemed so much bigger than he remembered, stretching thin and high to the ceiling. Everything was distorted in Sam's eye, not the right size, too dark, too bright.

He scrambled at the door handle, his icy fingers slipping, numb. Taking too long, too long, too long. She would be coming. He was so tired… but he yanked the door open and pushed himself, all but fell, out into the open air.

And there was a light, brighter than anything he'd ever seen, brighter than anything he remembered. He forced his eyes closed and hid behind his hands.

The light parted to a long shadow. It was Her, She'd found him, She was going to take him back…

The hands on his face were warm and dry. Sam, for the first time for a long time, felt safe. He could rest… he could…

"Oh my God. Sammy."

… let go. _  
_

* * *

_Sam – 20_ _th_ _June 2000. The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia._

The house looks the same. It stares down at him. That rounded window in the attic glints like an eye, the sun hitting off the glass. Standing by Bobby's truck, Dean looks over and locks Sam's gaze. There's an almost smile from Dean, a smile that doesn't really mean anything. Sam quickly looks down to the dashboard.

On his lap, he fiddles with the bracelet, the same one he hasn't taken off since the day he received it. And pressed in one hand, he holds the crucifix, the one Pastor Jim gave to him a long time ago.

Soon, the sun will go down. Soon, Sam will have to sit in the dark for the first time in four years. Even now, at the age of seventeen, Sam sleeps with a nightlight. He won't sleep in the dark, you couldn't make him do it even if you offered his voice back.

But Sam needs to sit in the dark, he needs to wait for Her, he needs to save his dad. God help him, Sam is terrified.

He hasn't been this scared since that asshole Tommy Renwick locked him in a closet three years ago. Sam hopes Tommy's arm has a nice, ugly scar on it where Sam sunk his teeth into the jerk's skin. Fuck that asshole.

Dad. Do it for dad. Sam could cry with how much it hurts to miss his dad, how much it hurts to know where his dad is.

In the Dark.

Sam shudders and pulls his jacket tighter around hit body. He's sweating under three layers, the air is stuffy inside the car, the sun is hot on his skin. Still, Sam shivers. He always shivers. He can't stop his hands from shaking.

"Sammy?"

Sam jerks, almost hits his head against the ceiling of the car, when Dean appears in the window. His face is pinched, he looks too old, too worried. Sam wishes he could say something to make him less afraid. But Sam can't speak. Sam will never speak again.

Dean gently eases the car door open and crouches down. "Me and Bobby are just setting things up inside. Are you okay out here on your own?"

Sam wants to say _no._ He wants to tell Dean how much he wants to drive all the way back to Minnesota and hide in his room for the rest of his life. But Sam just nods because he has no other choice.

Getting away the first time was a miracle.

They need something more than that this time.

His fingers tighten around the crucifix.

Sam watches Dean and Bobby head over to the house, watches them make their way up the steps and through the front door. An unhelpful voice in his head tells him that they won't be coming back out. He pushes it down with prayer, one of the many Jim taught him, reciting it over and over in his mind until he can't hear that voice again.

_Be brave, be brave, be brave._

She had eaten up his bravery, gutted him and scooped it all out.

His hands tremble harder, if it's possible, hard enough to shake up into his arms. He curls his arms into his middle and hunches forward to keep them still.

The front door creaks open again and Dean comes hopping down the stairs. The sight of his brother seeps a little relief into his chest, but not enough to quench the fear that is consuming him. Sam grips the bracelet and the crucifix pendant tighter in his hands until he can feel the point of the cross digging into his palm.

Dean eases the passenger door open and kneels down. He hesitantly reaches out a hand, but quickly diverts it to grip the door handle.

"Me and Bobby are all set up in there," he says. He's quiet for a moment and Sam can feel his eyes on him. He can tell Dean is waiting for some kind of answer so Sam just nods.

"Are you sure about this?" Dean finally asks. "We can find some other way to lure it out…"

Sam shakes his head frantically. He doesn't want to do this, dear God, he doesn't, but he wants his father back more than he feels afraid. If he wants his dad back, this is the only way. She didn't take John for any reason other than to lure Sam. John is a worm on the end of a hook, Sam is a fish. And Her, She's the shark.

She won't come out unless Sam is served up on a silver platter.

"I'll be right outside the door the whole time. Me and Bobby," Dean reminds him. "We're armed, okay? I'm not letting it touch you again. All you have to do is make the signal, then me and Bobby will come in and do the rest. All you have to do after that is run."

Sam frowns. _No_.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks.

Sam opens his mouth and wishes once again that he could speak. He clamps his mouth shut and frees his hands from where they're pinned around his middle. He jerks a thumb towards himself, wiggles two fingers in a running motion, then shakes his head.

Dean doesn't look like he understands, so Sam repeats it a few times. When Dean finally gets it, his eyes go wide.

"What? No, Sam. You need to run," he says. "What do you mean you're not running?"

Sam clenches his eyes closed, frustrated. He'd thought he'd made everything clear back at Annette's, writing it out and miming until his wrists were stiff, but maybe his communication skills aren't as manageable as he'd thought. He's definitely going to have to learn sign language, if his hands would just stop shaking, or if he doesn't die tonight.

Sam huffs a sigh and opens the glove compartment. He finds a cigarette pack and glares at Dean who looks suitably guilty, then he finds what he was looking for. A notepad and pen. Balancing the paper on his knee, he focuses his efforts on writing intelligibly. Once he's done, he hands it to Dean.

"'The door only stays open if She's in our world'," Dean reads. He frowns and glances up. "Yeah, you already said."

Sam refrains from rolling his eyes and takes the paper back, scribbling something else down, then handing it over.

Dean frowns at the paper as he reads, "'If She's dead, the door closes.'" He considers it for a moment, then nods. "So, we only gut the bitch once dad's back, right?"

Sam nods, relieved.

Dean shrugs. "No problem, Sam. Me and Bobby will handle it while you run back to the car, okay? The Impala's warded so it's the safest place we've got for you."

Sam nods, running a shaky hand along the dashboard. He feels Dean's hand on his shoulder, and for once, Sam doesn't jerk away.

"Let's light the bitch up," Dean says.

* * *

The curtains are drawn, blocking out any light from the moon outside. Sam settles down in the centre of the room, the UV torch in his hand flashes back-and-forth in his trembling grip. In his other hand, he tries his best to hold the string still.

He can hear Bobby and Dean outside the door, hear the floorboards creak under their weight. There's a brick wedged between the door and the frame, Dean won't be locked out like he was the last time.

No one makes a sound. There's nothing but the high whisper of wind rushing down the fireplace.

Sam tilts the torch upwards until he's sitting in a pool of light, surrounded by a circle of shadows. He has no idea which direction She might come from. It feels all too familiar to the Dark and his hands are now slick with sweat, the torch is slipping in his shaky grip.

She'll be coming for him soon. She must have smelled him by now. She's coming.

He grips the string more firmly, he feels the crucifix weighing down in his inner pocket, the bracelet feels tighter on his wrist.

He can't breathe. He can't _breathe_. She's coming, coming, coming, coming for him.

Sam feels a tightening in his chest, his heart beats desperately inside, wanting to be out. He needs to get _out_. But his legs feel like lead beneath him, his whole body is frozen solid, his hands twitch and shake uncertainly. He's so hot, he's too hot…

"Sam, I'm right here," Dean's voice filters quietly through the gap in the door. "I'm right here with you, Sammy. I'm here."

Sam forces a breath in, then back out. _Dean is here, Dean is here, Dean is here._ _In and out, in and out, in and out._

For dad. They're doing this for dad.

The huff of hot air on the back of his neck stiffens his spin and suddenly he can feel the weight of Her right behind him. Sam's mind has detached itself from his body and he's hardly aware of turning around, tilting the torch upward and yanking the string as he does.

He yanks the string hard, hears the bell ring on the other side of the door, hears Dean cursing.

For a split second his torch settles on Her face, settling on the stretched skin of Her empty eye sockets. Her mouth is stretched wide, a gash running from ear to ear, her countless teeth are bared in a grim smile.

Then the room explodes with light and She rears back onto Her long, bone-like legs, hissing and spitting, scrambling back into the corner in search of darkness. There are no shadows, there is nothing but light, brilliant light.

When Sam can't move, it's Dean who pulls him back and out of the way. Sam finally manages to get onto his feet and he stumbles clumsily into a wall, banging his shoulder painfully but he barely notices. He can't pull his eyes away from Her.

Bobby and Dean have Her cornered, training Her with their weapons. Seeing Her now in the light for the first time, truly seeing Her, She is far more terrifying than he remembers. She's big, bigger than She seemed when he was half the size he is now. But She's cowering, curled up and pressed into the corner, whining like a dying cat.

"It burns!" She shrieks. "It burns!"

"You're gonna feel a lot worse than that before I'm done with you," Dean barks. He turns to look over his shoulder, eyes going wide when he catches sight of Sam. "Get the hell out of here!"

Sam is rooted to the spot. He can't move, even though he wants to more than anything. He sees Her look up and stare at him with that eyeless face. Her grin grows wider. She reaches out one arm, Her long fingers wriggles, and one of the claws scrapes the glass of the nearest light.

Lightning fast, she swipes and the room grows a little darker. She lashes out and knocks Bobby and Dean back. Sam watches Her crawl up the wall, across the ceiling, and through the door to the hallway.

"Fuck!" Dean yells, kicking the broken UV light. Bobby grabs Dean's arm and points across the room, to the corner by Sam. There's a patch of blackness nestled in the lit-up part of the room, the same place where Dean's bed was settled four years ago. An impossible dark hole leading to nothingness.

"It's going to be coming back here if it wants to be getting back to wherever it came from," Bobby points out.

Dean nods, catching his breath. "Do you know what the hell that thing was?" he finally asks. "It was ugly as fuck."

Bobby raises an eyebrow, amused. "Not a clue. Never seen anything like it."

Dean shifts his gun in his grip and makes his way over to Sam, placing his free hand on his shoulder. "You good?" he asks.

Sam is anything but. Still, he nods. The motion makes him dizzy and he eases himself down, eyes locked on the doorway to the Dark. He was trapped in there for two months but it had felt like years. He thinks maybe it was. He manages to tear his gaze away and looks up to Dean.

He opens his mouth and forms the shape of the word _dad_ , pointing to the Dark.

"Dad's in there," Dean agrees. "We'll get him out, okay?"

Bobby is kneeling by the doorway, peering into its blackened depths. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and pushes it forward until it disappears in the shadows. He quickly pulls it back.

"Well, I ain't never seen something like that," he admits. He flicks on his flashlight and shines it inside, the light is swallowed up by the Dark. Bobby leans forward a bit. "John Winchester?!" he shouts. His voice echoes away.

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Dad's coming back," he says surely. He turns to face the door where She disappeared, gun focused into the hallway.

All three of them jump at the sound of a high pitched scream. "Help me!"

Dean's eyes go wide. "That's a kid!" he cries. "It's got a fucking kid!"

He sprints out the door and Sam's right on his tail. He manages to grab Dean at the foot of the stairs up to the attic, pulling him back.

"Sam, I'm not leaving a kid with that thing!" Dean snaps, trying to pull away but Sam's hold is firm. Once he has Dean's attention, he points to his ears. _Listen._

"Dean, help me! Please help me! DEAN!"

Dean looks to Sam, mouth hanging open. "That's you," he realises. "That's your voice. But I…"

Sam pats his throat, where his vocal chords once were.

"Jesus, fuck!" Dean swears, realisation dawning. "That's why you can't speak. That thing took your voice."

Sam nods sadly.

"Why did you never try to tell anyone?" Dean asks softly. "I always thought it was… I thought you were just too scared to speak. I never thought it was because you _can't_ speak. Fucking Christ…"

Sam never tried to tell anyone because he never wanted to remember any of it ever again. He could grow his plants and read his books and never think about the Dark again. But he'd never be so lucky as to forget.

"Dean, why don't you play with me anymore?"

It's Sam's voice, but not from his mouth. The voice of a child coming from the mouth of something grotesque. She's at the top of the stairs, crawling down towards them on all fours. Sam can see the glint of her teeth in the dark. Dean grabs a tight hold of his arm and pulls, tearing them away, back to Dean's old room where there's light.

Dean pushes Sam at Bobby, who catches him and guides him over to the corner. Then, the two of them close the door and barricade it with an old dresser. Sam backs up against the wall, shivering. He finds his abandoned flashlight a few steps away and leans over to grab it.

The door knocks. He hears his voice coming from the other side, "Dean, let me in!"

Bobby gapes, sputtering, looking between the two of them. The door knocks again, trembling in the frame. Sam gets onto his hands and knees, staring into the Dark. His mind detaches itself from his body again and he crawls forward, letting the blackness swallow him up.

It's colder than he remembers, sending a shiver through his bones the moment he's inside. He can feel the damp, stickiness under his feet as he moves. The patch of light from the room grows smaller and smaller behind him.

_Oh, boy, why did you come back?_

He sees he flickering just up ahead. Ghost girl. It hurts, a lump in his throat, not knowing what her real name was. He lifts the torch up and settles it on her. She looks just the same, just as horrifying.

 _You'll never leave now,_ she says. She drops her head sadly. _You're here for the man, I suppose. I thought it was strange, we never had a grown-up here before._

Sam nods frantically, crawling closer.

 _I'll take you to him_ , she says, and drifts away. Sam hurries after her, climbing to his feet, making his unsteady way through the Dark.

There is more flickering up ahead, a huddle of fading light. And in the centre, a heavy lump of shadow lies unmoving. Sam gets closer and casts the torch over his father's shape. He drops to his knees, hands moving unsteadily over pale, icy skin.

His heart hammers in his chest. Sam can't tell if his dad is breathing.

He taps John's cheek desperately. After a moment, John begins to rouse. Once his eyes are open, Sam buries his face into his shoulder, gripping onto him tightly.

 _Sammy?_ John says, his voice sounding loud and quiet in the vast Dark. Sam doesn't hesitate any longer, pawing at John, pulling him up. John lists a little to the side once he's sitting, and Sam holds him steady easing him to his feet. He hooks his dad's arm over his shoulder and hurries. Ghost girl floats ahead of them, leading them back the way he came.

 _Sam, I don't understand,_ John slurs. _Is this real?_

Sam grips his father tighter, a tear of relief making its way down his cheek. They're stumbling along together when the doorway becomes visible again. The light grows the closer they get.

Then there's shrieking so loud and high it pierces Sam's ears. He hears gunshots going off, he can hear Her screaming, and the doorway is suddenly shrinking, smaller and smaller.

John is standing on his own now, eyes wide and awake in the darkness. Sam grabs his hand and pulls, running for the door. It's closing, they're never going to make it.

It's getting darker.

It's getting darker

darker

darker…

Something shoves at him hard in the back and he goes flying forwards into the light, landing harsh and painfully on the wooden floor. The air is knocked out of him and he flops over onto his back, clutching his stomach, trying to sit up.

He can feel the blood on his knees, soaking his jeans. He rolls onto his side, catching his breath.

He sees Her then. He sees Her corpse. She's a heap of skin and bones, mouth hanging open impossibly wide, Her empty eye sockets are dark and surprised. She's dead.

He glances behind where the doorway to the Dark was. There's nothing there now but faded wallpaper. There's no sign of his dad.

He scrambles over to Her corpse and slams his fist down on Her broad, bony chest, again and again, willing her heart to beat. She needs to come back, She needs to open to door, She _needs_ to.

Dean's arms circle him and wrestle him back.

"It's dead, Sam," he says in his ear. "It's gone. It won't hurt anyone again."

Sam struggles because Dean isn't getting it. Dad is _gone_. Without Her, there is no door, there is no dad. He swivels around to face Dean, to make him understand.

"We'll find another way to open the door," Dean is saying. "I promised we'd get dad back. I promised."

Bobby is lingering by the corner, covered in bruises, blood leaking down the side of his face, looking a little shell-shocked as he stares at the empty space where the doorway was.

"I'll find another way," Dean promises. "You know me, Sam. You know I will. Dad's not gone."

But he is. He is, he is, he is. He's never coming back. Dean doesn't understand, Dad is never getting out.

"I'll find another one of these things, I'll make it open the door for me. I swear, Sam," Dean promises. He holds Sam tightly in his arms, rocking him like a child fresh out of a nightmare.

Dad's gone.

"I swear, Sam. Do you hear me?"

Gone.

Sam opens his mouth a screams. The room is silent. Through the curtains, the sun begins to rise, casting morning light across the fields outside. It's no longer dark, but Sam's hands still shake.

 

 


	7. Epilogue

_Sam - 26_ _th_ _June 2000, A Letter to Dean_

_Dean,_

_I have so much to say to you. I have four years' worth of things to say and I'll never be able to tell you directly. I won't speak again. For a long time, you thought the no-talking thing was psychological. You thought that one day I would be myself again. I won't ever be who I was before. None of us will._

_It's been almost a week. I think dad might still be alive but I don't know how much longer he'll last. There's something about the Dark, it keeps you alive. I barely ate or drank, I felt like I was there for years, and I stayed living. Maybe dad has a while longer._

_Right now, I'm watching you clean your guns. You promised me a few days ago that we'd stick together from now on. I can see how much you want to leave. You won't give up on dad, because you're you. You're too damn heroic, asshole._

_I want you to know this: if you leave to find a way to rescue dad, I'm coming with you. I'll be honest, I would really rather stay as far away from that world as I can. I can't take any more of it, but I would if I had to. For you and dad, I'd give up everything._

_As far as I know the door into the Dark can't be opened without Her. You shot Her full of bullets, which is all kinds of awesome, but it still means She's not opening that door. Maybe you're right, maybe there are others of Her kind, maybe there are other ways of getting in. There's no such thing as impossible in our fucked up world, right?_

_I don't know what She was. I don't know what the Dark was. I guess there are all kinds of things out there that even we don't know about._

_I've been talking to Jim. Actually, I've been exchanging notes with Jim. I've decided I want to finish school. I think I'm ready for that. Knowing that She's dead is like a weight off my shoulders. I've spent the last four years avoiding shadows because I thought She'd crawl out of them and drag me back to wherever She took me. Thinking of dad being in that place hurts more than I can tell you._

_Like I said before, if you want to leave and find a way to get dad back, I'm with you. If you keep your promise and stay in Blue Earth with me and Jim, I'll go back to school. The simple fact is I'm not letting you out of my sight. You've been in and out of my life too often these past few years and I'm putting my foot down. I'm with you, whether you're here in Blue Earth or whether you're out there looking for dad. You don't get a say in the matter. For once, I'm speaking up. You and me, come whatever._

_It's your move now, Dean. Stay or go? Whatever you choose, I'm with you._

_Sam_

* * *

_September 1_ _st_ _2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota._

The first Autumn morning is crisp, warm and fresh, and Sam Winchester's hands shake just a little less as he lowers a weeping fig into a shady plot of the garden.

Dean Winchester sits on the porch nearby, barely reading the newspaper in his hands, watching his little brother out of the corner of his eye. There's a letter he keeps in his back pocket that he's read a total of 37 times. He still hasn't found the words to reply.

Both boys, on the cusp of becoming men, wear their pain deep inside: quietly.

Pastor Jim delivers his services, sings hymns with his flock, prays with a boy he thinks of as his own, and begs God to save the boy's father.

One state away, Bobby singer is nose-deep in a book. A book similar to the others he has studied for the past month. He's read everything about shadow demons and creatures of the dark, of alternate dimensions and the twilight realms. He won't stop until he finds the answers he's looking for.

And further away, much further, a man wanders in the dark, guided by the spirits of lost children, looking for a way home.


End file.
